I’ve been trying to reach you for months.
I sent you a dozen letters that went unanswered,
forgotten and left behind.
All the stamps I wasted.
All the hand cramps I endured.
Writing to you,
because you said you liked love letters.
I poured my feelings onto every page
and dropped it tenderly into the mailbox,
hoping it made it to you safely.
How long is too long
to wait for your response?
How pathetic is it to still hold out hope
that you’ll answer
with just as much passion and spirit
that I sent to you?
Looking back at it now,
I’m embarrassed to have shared
so much at once.
But I thought that’s what you wanted.
I thought you wanted the reassurance
that I loved you.
I thought you wanted to know
that you were on my mind all the time.
I thought we were on the same page.
Looking back at it now,
I wish I had given up earlier.
I found out from our friends
that you’re with someone new,
a guy you never mentioned before.
I wanted to be happy that you were happy,
believe me I did.
But it hit me like a train
that you had no more time to spare,
and I needed to stop
checking the mailbox.
I think I’ll write one more letter,
with every innocent thought and every bold declaration,
but keep it a secret, close to my heart.
Then at least one of us
can remember the love we shared
once upon a time.