Alone at my desk,
with an empty frame,
that feels destined to be dressed in a picture of a perfect day.
I write you a letter,
letting out just enough,
so that you’ll know that I care,
but holding back enough,
that you’ll never know how much.
To me, you are perfect,
and my wasted heart will want you,
until it is brave enough to say other words,
that she sings quietly to herself,
as she stares at the empty frame,
melting into you,
pressed and passionate,
on a backdrop of some special day,
far in the future,
where I find the words so easily.