Love Letters with Nowhere to Go

These letters, these letters are written every day. Paragraphs of affection, foreign to all, but the one who wrote them, and the drawers they are stuck in. They wait, and wait. They desire to be given life by her eyes. The letters become forgotten and stale relics of love not found, and a love that didn't belong, and of a man that can't let go, a man whose soul still quiets when she enters a room, and seeks her ardently when she leaves. Dust collected on these letters signifies the selfishness of the writer. She is not his to love. How dare he think that words could win her heart? How dare he be such a selfish fuck up? Why does he do this to her? Why does he do this to himself? Why does he leave these letters in such a banal existence? Why does he not shred them? They have nowhere to go; captive letters with no release, praying to be read and released so they may live in the heart they always called home....
Dear Postman,
Don't come for us, If you do, return to sender.
Sincerely,
The Captive Letters