The apartment was dark
except for the lamp by
the window. He sat at
the desk, a single sheet
of paper in front of
him, pen in hand. The
ink had dried on the
tip. He'd started the
letter three times, each
attempt ending in a
scratched-out line, the
paper now a graveyard of
half-thoughts.
He looked out the
window. The building
across the street had one
light on, a square of
yellow in the black. He
wondered who was awake,
what they were doing.
Maybe they were also
writing, or not
sleeping, or just
sitting.
He folded the blank
sheet, slid it into an
envelope, and wrote an
address he knew by
heart. Then he put it
in the drawer, not the
mailbox. The lamp
hummed. He turned it
off, leaving the room to
the moon's pale glow
through the curtain.
Some words are better left to the dark.