1,000 letters all stuffed in your mailbox,
Things I’ve thought for hours, days, even during our talks,
All of the things that haven’t left the tip of my tongue,
All of the words that float freely in my mind,
Sentences formed, ready to be spat out, but resigned,
I look into your swimming pool eyes, and I think,
“Just say it already, you can say it this time,”
But my mouth becomes dry as the summertime,
And my tongue can no longer convey.

The tip of my pen, however, is as fearless as can be,
he wrote you 1,000 letters, and I’m sorry, it’s a lot to read,
Those 1,000 letters didn’t cramp my hand for one second,
but they’re letters that I would have much rather said,
or sang, or telepathically conveyed, but I brought letters instead:
letters I didn’t want to have to write to you in the first place.