It's coming to an end, yeah.
Do you miss the blend,
Of colors she left in your black and white field?
Do you feel condemned just being there?
I am not your friend.
I am just a man who knows how to feel.
That was your first letter to me. Execution was a little sloppy (need to work on your delivery), but the penmanship unmistakenably yours. Sad. Cute. Something I could identify with. I mistook it for a mockery on that cold winter afternoon, a misunderstanding that sent me over the brook and on this spiral tirade to begin with.
Now you're gone, and I'm going, and all the words I've ever posted to you pale in my memory when lined up with the words you wrote.
You're the one I'll miss the most when this is all underground.
Before I check out the mailbox, I think I'll open the last letter you ever gave me. Been waiting all this time.
