Did you get it?
It’s not perfect, it’s creased and blotted
done haphazardly, stained with carelessness.
Written when I’m running around, a hundred miles an hour
spilling tea over the words, the ink has probably run.
That’s what I’d let you believe.
Truth is, this one, I spent hours on.
Tender as I could be,
folding it neatly.
Nowadays though, you’re too angry with me
to run to the door, pick up the post.
Thump, thump like my heart the envelopes
beat thick and fast through your letter box
but they’re left where they land, gathering dust.
Imagine that, a million little ‘I love you’s’
that nobody will ever read.
Along with those, lies the crucial ‘I’m sorry’
for the things that I let slide, for hurting you
letting the sandcastles you built get washed away by the sea.
But the truth is, I’m more sorry that I underestimated you
I thought if I sent just one
Like a flare in the dark, you’d come running to save me.
I wait by the window. I wait by the window.
The moon hangs out and the lane stays unmarred by news.
But I need to keep doing this.
I need to keep sending you letters
I need to love you, for just a little bit longer
If that’s alright with you.
But I hope you know,
that under my bed, I’ve kept all of yours.
You know- the desperate pleas from months ago
because I know what it’s like now,
to write a letter, to say ‘I love you’
knowing
that I’ll never hear it back.
