Arrival of the Unsent Letter

Free Verse Version

By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025

It came unbidden, not borne by stamped enclosure—

a shift in silence, the breath behind intention,

creased like a promise that bent beneath its burden.

No one had signed it.

I wrote to you not knowing if you’d read it—

words meant to wander without witness.

Its face was blank, but I traced what might’ve lingered:

a love deferred, and a hurt too shy for naming.

No stamp. No sender. Just air becoming presence—

just absence warming.

I chose the words that trembled past my caution,

then let them go, half-hope and half surrender.

It stayed beside me, a ghost of what was offered—

refusal’s grace, and the gift that lost its moment.

So much undone by the courage never taken.

Still, it arrived here.

Perhaps the message was never mine to carry—

perhaps your silence taught my heart to listen.

I dream sometimes of a voice I never answered—

the hush between us, a chord I dared not echo.

What can be spoken when nothing is the saying?

I kept it unbroken.

If silence speaks, then let it hold my sending.

My words have missed you—but they are still breathing.

Now when I walk through a place I once remembered,

a shadow lengthens where language used to settle.

I feel your letter in things that bear no wording—

rainfall and sparrows.

There is a joy in not arriving fully—

a voice half-heard is still a kind of closeness.

So let it be: not returned and not forgotten.

A name unspoken. A breath too far to answer.

Yet in this quiet, I feel your pulse still flicker—

light held in nothing.

You never asked me to read it.

But I did

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The Arrival of the Unsent Letter

Dactylic Hexameter Version

By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025

Came it unbidden, not carried by postal
enclosure—a shifting in

Silence, the breath that lies hidden behind
the intention, creased like a

Promise that bent underneath its own
burden. No signature marked it.

Wrote I to you, never knowing if reading
would find you—these truths must

Wander without any witness to guide them
or gather their meaning.

Blank was its face, but I traced what might
linger there: love that was

Deferred, and a hurt that remained far too
shy for the naming.

No stamp. No sender. Just air that was
warming to presence—just

Absence that breathed with the weight of
unspoken devotion.

Chose I the words that went trembling past
all of my caution, then

Let them depart, half surrender and half-
hope for hearing.

Stayed it beside me, a ghost of the gift that
was offered—

Refusal’s own grace, and the moment that
lost its own courage.

So much undone by the bravery never
attempted.

Still, it arrived in this place where my heart
had been waiting.

Perhaps was the message not mine for the
carrying forward—

Perhaps did your silence teach my own heart
how to listen.

Dream I sometimes of a voice I have never
yet answered—

Hush that between us remains like a chord I
dared not echo.

What can be spoken when nothing becomes
the true saying?

Kept I it whole and unbroken, this gift
without giver.

If silence can speak, then let it hold fast to
my sending.

Words that have missed you—but still they
continue their breathing.

Now when I walk through the places I once
could remember,

Shadow grows long where the language once
settled and rested.

Feel I your letter in things that bear no kind
of wording—

Rainfall and sparrows that carry the weight
of unspoken.

Joy there can be in not arriving completely—
a

Voice that is half-heard still offers a kind of
true closeness.

So let it remain: not returned and not ever
forgotten.

Name left unspoken. A breath that is too far
for answer.

Yet in this quiet, I feel your pulse still in its
flicker—

Light that is held within nothing, yet blazes
eternal.
Never you asked me to read what was never written.
But I have read it, and known what was never intended.

The Arrival of the Unsent Letter

Iambic Pentameter Version

It came unbidden, not borne by any stamp—
A shift in silence, breath behind intent,
Creased like a promise beneath its burden’s weight.
No one had signed this impossible thing.

I wrote to you not knowing if you’d read—
These truths must wander without any witness.

Its face was blank, but I traced what lingered:
A love deferred, hurt too shy for naming.
No stamp. No sender. Just air becoming
Presence—just absence that warmed with longing.

I chose the words that trembled past caution,
Then let them go, half-hope, half surrender.

It stayed beside me, ghost of what was offered—
Refusal’s grace, the gift that lost its moment.
So much undone by courage never taken.
Still, it arrived here where hearts remember.

Perhaps the message was not mine to carry—
Perhaps your silence taught my heart to listen.

I dream sometimes of voice I never answered—
The hush between us, chord I dared not echo.
What can be spoken when nothing is saying?
I kept it whole, unbroken in its silence.

If silence speaks, then let it hold my sending.
My words have missed you—but they still are breathing.

Now when I walk through places once remembered,
A shadow lengthens where language settled.
I feel your letter in wordless things—
In rainfall, sparrows, and spaces between.

There is a joy in not quite arriving—
A half-heard voice is still a kind of closeness.

So let it be: not returned, not forgotten.
A name unspoken. Breath too far to answer.
Yet in this quiet, I feel your pulse flicker—
Light held in nothing, yet somehow present.

You never asked me to read what stayed unwritten.
But I have read it, and felt what was given.