Unreceived Letter

By Aarshia Ray

I have many letters waiting on my desk, unread,

Because the only letter I want to read hasn’t been delivered.

Yet, I tell myself, it hasn’t been delivered yet.

I stack all the letters haphazardly:

Continuations of conversations

Carrying on for the sake of socialization,

For the sake of finding respite

In the conspiracies of our fruitless lives.

I will read all, and answer every single letter,

Because I need escape from my headspace.

My reflection in my broken mirror

Has bound me in the eternal curse

To be answered by all but one.

But how can my foolish self expect to be answered

When it has put forward no question?

Oh no! I haven’t confronted, haven’t communicated

Haven’t conveyed those flickering daydreams

Haunting me in the brightest sunshine,

My eloquence vanished

With the overwhelming rain.

My speech is constrained by the amount it has to say.

The sun sets with an ever melancholy,

And the crows start cawing from their woody nests

Two cats engage in a ferocious fight,

And pigeons make haste away from the scene.

Lamps turn on, and a woman’s cries fill the air

The shattering screams bespeaking volumes

Of emotions ever suppressed, never revealed.

I bend over my work in pretentious self-concern.

The letters glare at me, asking to be read.

Wait, sweet parchments, I say,

The sweetest is yet to come,

I promise to kiss you all,

But I will kiss the awaited first.

I think mailboxes are the most prized assets,

Because every morning and night,

I stand in front of it, heart beating fervently,

And tenderly I take letters that I will read on a later day,

Because the only letter I want to read hasn’t been delivered.

Yet, I tell myself, it hasn’t been delivered yet.

By Aarshia Ray