I Write You

I write you. Not nearly as often as I should. Time won’t allow it. I won’t allow it. And what I write will never get to you anyway. It wasn’t meant for you. Though it was about you. So many letters I never sent bear your name. But I do write you. Often. You’ll just never know.

I write you. Every day. But you don’t care to read. What I write is worthless. To you. To me, it is you. All I have left, in fact. Your presence now only words on a page that will never be read. Not by you. And I wouldn’t want you to. They’re my words to write.

I write you. Like you’re the only person I know. Like your name is the only one I can spell. But it’s not. You’re just what I write. I can’t help but write you. Even if you don’t want me to. I write for me. Never for you. Unless it’s what you want me to do.