I can’t write you,
I can’t figure what you say to me,
I can’t write you still.
You’re a fancy of many hearts,
A dozen believe in what you have to say,
Some lie there by the box,
Some wait for you to be slipped in.
I have no clue still,
Oh! what you say.
You still break hearts,
You still open with hidden meanings,
You bring forth innocence pressed against a child’s heart,
You bring forth the shyness of a newly-wed wife.
But I can’t write you still.
I know you will change,
I know you will be misread.