DUSK LETTERS

Evening folds itself around me,

quiet as an unopened letter —

ink waiting in the dim,

a message I keep meaning to read

but never quite unfold.

I walk beneath a sky carved in lavender,

the kind of dusk that makes everything feel

half-remembered,

half-dreamed.

Streetlights blink awake,

one by one,

like they’re signing their names

in the dark.

I carry words I never sent,

little truths pressed into my palms,

warming slowly as if they want

to escape.

But I keep them close —

some messages aren’t meant

for distance.

There’s a softness in the air tonight,

like the world exhaled first

and finally let me follow.

My breath moves slow,

gentle,

careful not to disturb the thin veil

between memory and now.

If I wrote everything I felt,

the page would glow

with a kind of quiet ache —

but maybe that’s what dusk is for:

a place where unspoken things

feel safe enough to exist

without being shared.

So I keep walking,

letters unsent,

heart half-lit,

letting the sky write its stories

in fading gold and tired blues.

Dusk doesn’t demand answers.

It just asks you to stay awhile

and breathe.