When the response to a letter is Silence. What does that mean?

A note I wrote to tell you of my day.
Not of kisses and romance nor of the weather
Just a note inspired by the rays of sunlight pouring out upon the lush landscapes.
To say “hello” on a day that was special by not being special at all. Just a day.

I wrote it with a smile, short and melodious, with not much rhythm but with much life.
My life. To tell you…
Of my day.

I awaited a response with some anticipation, not an abundance,
At least at first, but with
Some trepidation,
As always comes with a note in a bottle cast upon the water – with the wonder
If when opened, shall it mean anything more than blotches of ink upon paper?
To someone.

As the days passed my mind was fertile with interpretations,
As to the meaning of the delay
In response to my note, that I wrote you,
Of my day.

I recalled the words that my pen put to paper
And tried to read them with your ears, your mind, your heart.
But I succeeded in only confusing my ears, my mind,
My heart.

For when I heard my words as through you I was compelled to answer me. No you.
With words that lifted up my spirit. No.
Your spirit. With me. Or was it to you?
I can’t remember anymore.

Did you take my note, the one I wrote, as mere tedious thoughts?
Did you hear my words, the ones you heard, as offensive?
Perhaps too pensive?
But I do not know how or why you would.
I have read them, now, a thousand times and cannot find the peculiarity.
That would cause such a misconception.

I must have made you uncomfortable with my question,
Though I truly confess,
That it was innocent in nature. I was merely trying to get you to express,
A thought.
Or two.
To me.

It was what I thought, not a serious breach of protocol,
Or had I, would have resolved to clarify,
Anything you think I might have meant,
Other than the words,
Which were my way,
Of telling you merely of my most normal day.

So now I am tormented by the meaning of your silence,
My mind has masticated every scenario, save none
That could explain a lack of response.

You may hate me, which would explain this perturbing want of acknowledgement.
You may be in love with me, which would, in a strange way, clarify
Your silence.
You may be ambivalent to anything about my life,
Especially my most un-special day.

But my mind does not arrive upon the conclusion that you are too busy.
No. There must be an explanation why.
There must be a lucid intention. At least that is what my mind tells me.

For whatever reason it is – the cacophony of silence yields not, understanding.
For Silence, or the Understanding of it
Remains a mystery to all those except the one granting it.