one day my teacher asked me
why I always wrote in lowercase letters
her glasses perched on the top of her beak
she squawked,
"you were not taught that in school, young lady.
it is not proper, young lady."

and I gripped my pen tighter
or maybe a little looser
it's hard to tell lately.

but I looked in to her black beady eyes
and disapproving frowny face
and whispered "see how I am whispering
do you see how you are leaning closer
like I have a secret
more intimate, correct?
that is my writing:
an intimate secret.
for you"

Embellishing letters with ribbons
but those can't appease
the rotting words that lay unsent
in dusty drawers of masked regret.

Dusty shelves
and unfinished letters
Where could all the time have gone
So swift and subtle
away from my hands
with no letters to send
Laying on old books and magazines
while they all live
so far away
and I sit
with unfinished words to send
on dusty shelves
until we meet again

Talking to you, it feels like home again.
We're not really saying anything
But that says everything
I miss you, I'll come visit,
How have you been?
It's better than nothing
And I'll take what I can get.
It's funny how far we can come,
How much things can change
Yet you're still my comfort
It's like you never hurt me
Back to being just friends.
But, we were never just friends
So here I guess we'll begin again.