Imaginary Letters (Poetry)

The healing pen inside my head scribbles every day -
scratches, busy, crosses through
whole sentences, holds back, resigned,
redundant words I’ll never send to you.

I’ve written reams - way, way too much
repeating, editing,
each thought revised, imperfect yet,
and I’ve rarely saved a thing

on paper. Uncertain letters haunt the air -
imagined, line by line -
but there’s no chance I’ll get them down -
too long - too little time.