I would write to you
if you would reply to me
But if they ever saw these letters
then who would I be writing to?

I write a page at a time
only ever staring blanky a few moments
and then picking up the pencil
and letting my hand glide over paper,
But who am I writing to?

Am I writing to myself
or am I writing to my fallen dreams,
my fading memories
of a time I once longed for,
but can never reach.

Am I writing to the person I wish I was?
This person is an imposter
a fake; an intruder
whose sole purpose is to let them never
see the real me.
So they only know the perfectly flawed,
but never enough to take action.

I think I write to both,
a desperate cry for someone to heal me
with their fingertips drying my tears in the night
after another bitter fight that leaves me hollow
and lets me fade away into restless sleep
as my tears leave trails on my cheeks.