I continue sending letters
Written with blood
Sealed with a kiss
Each one more elaborate than the last
Each one sent more soberly
Each one with stronger intent.
Alas, my love is unreachable
Hidden high in a golden tower
Atop a golden stair
Which I can not ascend.
My love answers in whispers
Too small for my hearing.
Each one a tiny soldier
His voice hacks through my doubt
Only to be doubted on arrival
Is it you, my love?
Is it you?
Is it... me?
Sometimes I think
I'm writing to myself.
