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The man who wrote letters and poems for decades
had no reason to stop.
He sat at his desk,
hands steady on the paper,
watching the words
move into the envelope
like small birds
flying away.
The years passed;
the silence grew.
He knew his words had wings,
but it was the absence of response that troubled him,
like a garden he tended
with no flowers in bloom.
He began to wonder if the world
was not missing something,
but if he himself had somehow
never truly arrived.
There was a moment when
he looked at the door
and couldn’t remember
if he had ever crossed through.
Messages were sent,
but did they touch anyone?
He folded the final one,
sealed it with care,
and placed it in the box.
Perhaps, he thought,
it was not the world
that had forsaken him,
but that the world
had never known
how to call his name.