I’ve considered writing you letters-
One a day, locked away-
On pretty paper with coloured ink,
My feelings breathed into the words.
But the fear that they’d be found
And somehow something private
Would be intruded upon
Paralyses my hands
In a psychological writer’s cramp.
But still the idea seems appealing:
I want to write down the little things,
The things I forget that I want to tell you,
The reasons why I love you
For which finding words
Is a fluke, a bolt from the blue.
I wish I could somehow imprint
My thoughts upon the page
Just exactly as they occur,
So that I might save myself
From fruitlessly attempting
To turn them into words
Which flow coherently enough
To whisper to you.
In writing this I wonder
If perhaps I have the courage
To write to you after all,
And save them up,
Find a place
Where no-one would ever guess.
And then of course,
I’d have to tell you
Of the existence
Of my as yet unwritten letters
And perhaps I’d give you them-
Dated, sweetly correlated-
For you to read and see and know
The things I cannot manage
To tell you when I see you.
It’s strange, I suppose,
That I worry about writing letters-
By hand, physical entities-
And yet I put my fumbling words
Out there for others to see,
The privacy and sacredness
Protected by the poetry.
Perhaps I will write you letters after all.

The End

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