I’m writing to you.
It’s me.
It’s still early.
I dreamt so much;
The paper
Under my fingers
Is hard like your body.
I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.
I drew
Your name and your address,
Here on the side.
It’s like a promise.
Oh God, how banal it is,
The little postcard
That hurts.
I chose
This picture.
I find it pretty,
Maybe a little bit sober
to tell the truth
without blushing.
I have nothing to tell you.
I just want to write to you, write to you.
I drew
your name and your address,
here on the side.
It’s like a promise.
Oh God, how banal it is,
the little postcard
That hurts.
I’d like to tell you
About the pretty sand,
About the wind which sleeps
On the golden seashells.
I’d like to tell you
About the people outside
Who get a tan together
Like dead seashells,
But here in my lines,
I’m not so clever.
I’m just a semaphore
That shouts, ‘I adore you, I adore you!’
I’m writing to you.
It’s me.
It’s still hard.
I love you strongly enough,
Paper
Under my fingers
Again and again.
I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.
I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.
I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.