Letters, letters, letters
I could write for hours
I have written for hours
Sometimes to myself, sometimes to others
But what happens when you run out of words,
Out of stories,
And people are still begging for more?
You wait for something to say.
And you write it to her
The first thing you do is write to her
You write knowing that one day very soon she would see the same words you wrote today
You wonder of she could picture you writing these letters
Could she picture my smiles and my crys?
Would she even think that?
Probably not
Maybe you were just delusional
Maybe you should keep the letters
Stop writing at all.
No.
You continue so that she will have something to look forward to
You continue so in some way you could make her happy.
Whatever that means anymore.
It's our thing.
Writing is mine.
And my letters are yours
(I have a letter sitting in my notebook right now)
