Some letters are written and never sent. They keep in drawers and pocket linings until the words inside have softened into something else, the envelope cracking, the ink consumed, luna moths rising in place of language. "UNSENT," the page declares. "Words decay."
For readers who keep what was never sent, the epistolary Romantics, the annotators of grief, the ones who understand that certain thoughts become more honest after they've started to decay.