I picked up the paper sitting on your desk.
Your loopy cursive filled the page.
It spoke of the days watching sunrises
And nights filling little heads with tales of fantastic adventures
In far off lands.
Every little thing you had thought that week was bled on the page.
From the way your coffee tasted Monday morning to how work pissed you off.
You came into the room, and started at the sight of me reading it.
Embarrassment flooded your face when I asked if there were more.
You nodded but replied "those are letters not meant to be read."
"Why," I asked "do you have them if they aren't being read?"
"Because."
Now when you aren't home I scour the room looking for them because
You don't realize that I want the same things too.
