In the quiet of the night, I write to you,
With a pen that knows our shared silence,
Each stroke a whisper of what could be,
As moonlight dances on the empty page.

Your name, a melody my heart composes,
In every word, a fragment of our story,
Unfolding in the ink that binds us,
Across the distance of unspoken dreams.

I write of moments that never were,
Of glances stolen, of hands that never touched,
In every line, a universe of what-ifs,
A testament to the love we never confessed.

My pen, a bridge between our worlds,
Each letter a step closer to your soul,
Yet the paper remains our secret garden,
Where only our hearts know the truth.