the letters we w...

the letters we write and don't send. i've placed them carefully into a cardboard box. they hold strong at the deepest part of the ocean with the anchors of sunken shipwrecks. at these depths the blue body herself does not move an eighth. confusion surfaces occasionally with an old habit. it snowed in my bedroom. it was the type of snowfall where the flakes replace the skyline, and come to rest on shoulders, and faces. snow doesn't find their chests because half their organs are against each other, covering each other, breathing for each another. mother nature cries and the clouds cover a city with a weightless white blanket. all this while they sleep.