Other People’s Love Letters Got Me Here

If you love me, write to me.
I have waited for years.
Always the sender, never the receiver.


Words that I don’t even know anymore after they were
Written in
Sunlit hostel rooms,
Cold classrooms,
Or dimly lit living rooms.

Words that were delivered
But not held
To a heart,
Not reread to memorise,
Not opened up wide to read between the lines.

“It’s only a letter.”

But you forgot I also sent you
my favourite books with my favourite sentences underlined
To remind you I heard them in your voice.

I sent you a picture of me at age five —
to show you I have been a child,
I’ve been innocent,
lived a life you have not been a part of
but should have been

A memory gift-wrapped for you.
To tell you this is who I am.
“I am yours.”
All parts (past + present + future) of me.

I also sent you a story.
A fantasy you asked for as a joke
I took too seriously.

I sent you my heart in between the lines.
Check again between the “I miss you” and “Wish you were here”.

Sure, you probably only got the words.
Maybe the rest got lost.
Maybe post offices are the reason you never saw me enough to love me.

Because if you’d loved me, you’d write to me.