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There's a box of your letters I keep
Rarely opened, ofttimes forgotten.
Words remembered come fleeting.
Sent to me.
Watching you dancing, laughing and smiling
Oh how the sun breaks through.
I hear your voice and the dust flies from the cover.
Sent to me.
Some books are treasured, pampered and displayed.
Others the same only hidden
Like mine reminders of truths and ambitions.
Sent to me.
What's a book called that never was to be read?
What's there to say about the contents?
When read before me by others, so many others.
Sent to me.
Someday I'll return all those letters
Once I've washed the words with my tears.
Delivered by chance you should take them back.
Never sent to me.
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