Poetry
The Museum of Unsent Letters
A poem for the words that changed us even though they never reached their destination.
R
Richard Nkwenti
1 min read
In the museum of unsent letters,
the rooms are kept at grief-temperature.
Your name sleeps beneath glass
beside the apology
I polished until it no longer sounded true.
There is a whole wing for courage:
envelopes addressed,
stamped,
carried to the mouth of the box,
then brought home like frightened birds.
Visitors whisper before the exhibit
called What I Knew Too Late.
No one is allowed to touch it.
At closing, the guard turns off the light
and every sentence begins glowing
from the place where it was withheld.
Some words fail because they are never spoken.
Others save us
by teaching the heart
what it was finally able to say.
