It was all good on paper.
The ink was set and dry.
But the writing in between the words
the ink did yet belie.

Perhaps if you had sent a picture
so that I could look you in the eye;
A thousand words to know you true,
read between your face’s lines

Then with your heart laid open,
from my heart you could not shy.
Instead these words unspoken
And one caged and endless cry.