Dear old lover, I wrote you a letter to tell you I still write about you. In every poem, and every song, and every verse, I find your hazel eyes watching me write, and your crooked smile; you laugh while I struggle to rhyme, because you know my verses are free. My hair is a mess, my hands are blue from the ink, the bed is full of papers, and, yet, I can read on your face that you can only see the love I have