I used to write you letters
a way to stay connected.
I often would fantasize
how you might receive them today.
I might hear you discount them.
I still hold onto memory
and wish you might do the same.
I don’t know why I hold on
something inside tells me to
in fact, it doesn’t just speak it,
begs it, pleads it, carries on.
I used to write you letters
I didn’t send them all to you.