Many Letters

by Wayne Hinton, in late 1962

I've written many letters, love,
But none you'll ever see.
I've written many letters, my dear,
And mailed each back to me.

For when I sit her all alone,
No matter where or when,
Reminders of the days we shared
Seep slowly, surely in.

I fear our love is gone for good.
Who is the one to blame?
Did I do something wrong, my dear? (name withheld)
Keep happiness away?
Perhaps I thought more of myself
And did you harm that way.

Do you remember how we'd sit
And dream the nights away?
My thoughts were full those nights of you,
The wife I'd have some day.

Your paintings were so beautiful
As on the walls they hung.
They could have graced our home, I thought,
As could those songs you'd sung.
Why did those dreams come to an end?
Why did they fail so soon?
I ask these questions often, love,
While gazing at the moon.

My heart grows faint; my legs get weak
Each time I think of thee.
I lack the pluck to write to you.
I'm writing this to me.