she has written letters to him
not one,
but one and
a thousand.
the letters, she
has written, are for him;
but
she would always,
carefully tuck, each her written letter,
every midnight hour,
under her bed and
pray, no one,
not a soul would find them; and
especially not a soul
that is him.
albeit, those letters,
those letters, she writes;
with her neat hand writing and
feelings from the depth of her heart,
those letters,
are only
for
h i m.
YOU ARE READING
y o u
Poetryi've never breathed more, as i have around you, but breathing in the same air as you, was suffocating enough to make me want to stop. but, love, you can't just stop breathing like that, can you? [in which, she writes letters to him, letters tha...
