I could,
send this letter,
but you’d never read it.
Instead,
I will write it,
and sweep it,
beneath the carpet.
Maybe you know,
possibly you don’t,
I could never tell,
even if I wanted.
Why is life,
so unfair,
leaving bitterness,
on my tongue?
I desire,
to know,
the answer.
Love,
Me.
This will be the start to a series of poems written in letter form. The letters will come, they may be often, or not, but they will be written.
