I've sent a thousand letters
To a place they won't be claimed.
I've written a million poems
To a man who can't be named.

I don't know who you are
Or where in this world to find you.
I don't have the slightest idea
But I'm not so sure I want to.

Your name once meant power
And hope and the smell of wet asphalt at night,
But all it was has been tainted
And nevermore will it fit you quite right.

I've spent centuries waiting where I know I can be found,
Sending all of my letters to Wherever He Is
And waiting by a mailbox for something too abstract
To ever come by Canada Posts or FedExes.

If by chance you find a note under your door someday
From a girl you used to know
Read it. Read it and tell me you're still the same guy
Not a mere ghost, not a mere echo.

Read it, please
And tell me you haven't given up on me.