I have a message that I wrote for you,
But I'm the messenger, so I delivered it too.
Written in ink, to be there forever,
A simple question, wrapped in a gesture.
Feel free to postpone delivery.
I'll come back in a month, a year, or a century.
What happens now will shape us, no doubt.
Have no fear, let it all out.
"What this? You have a letter for me?"
It's the same in every way, only you've changed the name.
"To: the Messenger," dated ages ago.
I would have come sooner, but my feet walk slow.
No one has ever written to me.
"From: Her to Whom I've Written," -- can it be?
Without even blinking, I eagerly read.
The words jump off the page and overwhelm me.
Is it clear through my smile, my eyes?
All voids are filled, I'm whole inside.
I'm no longer a messenger, but an author at best,
Writing my feelings, my thoughts, my tests.
And every moment we don't stop to think,
We write of our stories, and we write them in ink.