What is the purpose anymore
Of writing hopeful love letters to you?
Nothing more than a box filled with papers
Set aside to never be looked at again.
No stamp will ever cling to them,
No kiss shall ever seal them.
They serve me no purpose,
They bring me no answers.
Instead I write letters to her,
Some as simple as little reminders:
That you like your eggs overcooked,
That the color orange makes you naseous.
That you only drink tea with cream,
And that the ocean makes your heartache.
To remember to wake you
With kisses upon your eyelids,
And always before the sun rises.
Still I find myself writing more than reminders.
At night, when the moon stops speaking,
And the crickets will not answer,
I write her pleads.
I set aside my pride,
And find myself begging.
I beg her to please hold you tightly when you sleep,
To please forgive your stubborn, irrational fits,
I beg her to cherish your soul more than gold,
To wipe away your tears when you think about your mother.
And at the end of every letter I write,
I bow my knees down on these pages,
And on my knees I beg her.
I beg her to please love you.
To love you the way you deserve to be loved.
To love you as much as I always have,
In the way I never could.