empty envelopes

At ll I'll read my unfinished letters, and have all the unwritten letters written when everyone is asleep.
Invisible letters on night's black sheet. I write them all with p.s.-es and darling dears.
But when morning comes--where darkness hides back into the corners, when the sun melts the crystal mist of night hanging in the air and early dawn's breeze blow away the ice kiss of the stars-- the letters are all gone; they disappear.
Or perhaps it is when sleep finally creeps under eyelashes and takes me far away that the letters, feeling abandoned because they were never written on paper (felt the kiss of ink and paper), follow the wind and never come back.

So I wonder where they go.
And all those empty envelopes will be tossed at sea because if one were a letter that is the place to be, like old-fashioned letters in old-fashioned bottles thrown out to be freed.
So I wonder and I hope that the same wind that led them away will guide the lost letters to find their temporary nests, and I dream that they'd be in their true homes fast:
someone's hands and reading hearts at last.