unsent

I found the letter in a box of old papers. It was folded and creased. It was addressed to someone I used to love. I sat down on the floor and read it. The words were old. The feelings were old. But they still felt true. I remembered writing the letter. I remembered the pain and the anger. I remembered the sadness and the desperation. I remembered the feeling of being lost. I remembered the feeling of being alone. I didn't send the letter. I didn't have the courage. I didn't have the strength. I was afraid of what might happen. I was afraid of what might be said. I was afraid of what might be done. So I just folded the letter and put it away. Now I read it again. Now I feel the same feelings. The same pain. The same anger. The same sadness. The same desperation. But it's different now. It's not the same. I'm not the same. I thought about sending the letter now. I thought about giving it to the person it was meant for. But it's too late. It's too late for that. The time has passed. The moment has gone. I folded the letter again. I put it back in the box. I stood up and walked away. I left the past in the past. I left the feelings in the feelings. I moved on. But the words still linger. The words still echo. The words still feel true. I still feel the pain. I still feel the anger. I still feel the sadness. I still feel the desperation. But it's not the same. It's not the same because I'm not the same. I'm older now. I'm wiser now. I'm stronger now. I'm more alone now. But I'm still me. I'm still the same person who wrote the letter. I'm still the same person who felt the feelings. I'm still the same person who was lost. I'm still the same person who was alone. The letter is still unsent. The letter is still unspoken. But the words are still there. The words are still true. And I'm still here. I'm still me.