So I write these letters to you. 
In some strange way, it's what I hold on to.

I tell you every detail about my life. 
What goes wrong and what goes right. 

Even though you won't ever read them, I still write as if you will.
Thinking you won't know what I have to say has me saddened,

But I still go on,
Paper on desk and in my hand a quill.

What a sad story, you're gone and away.
Not knowing what love someone feels for you.

You're everywhere except for here; in these letters my heart is displayed.
But once again, and again, I talk to you through these words. You're so far away.

You don't know who I really am.
I adore you from a distance.

But if fate will give us a chance,
I will always love you; I really can.

But no. What's meant to be cannot be altered.
I can't take it! It hurts! In my heart there is no acceptance.

But in my mind I know what should be right and my heart doesn't know what is.
What feels right is the love I have for you, it's in my heart, shining like a light.

But in my mind I know the reality, the harsh truth:
I'll never be his.