I've been writing you letters most of my life.
I am never certain if you receive them, but in my mind's eye
I can see you reading them in your quiet place with tender understanding
The curtains are stirred there by a gentle breeze and I see your hands
Holding the pages, but not your face,
Never your face.
You haven't written back,
But I live in hope.
I am never certain if you receive them, but in my mind's eye
I can see you reading them in your quiet place with tender understanding
The curtains are stirred there by a gentle breeze and I see your hands
Holding the pages, but not your face,
Never your face.
You haven't written back,
But I live in hope.
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