(To the person who has always written letters confessing underlying feelings, but not delivered them.)
The growing pile of misdirected letters intended for you,
But intended to be kept to myself, still lay in the corner of my room.
The whispering feet of truth stroll around the paper,
Pitter-pattering on each line, pausing on all punctuation.
It dances on the syllables of every word,
To the soft hum of pure happiness.
The words float across the page and land softly on your eyes,
Bringing an air to the letter, recreating the twisted emotions
Of truth forced into limited vocabulary.
The words slowly tell you how to feel and what to think.
Each letter was picked cautiously, invoking a certain feeling.
As they end, the manipulated thought grows from hidden emotion behind words,
To the prominent thought in your mind,
Pushing the chances of an unrealistic relationship to your fancy.
If only the letters weren't effortlessly tossed to the corner,
But given to their use.
11/19/02
