No Postbox

I wake up writing things
to myself.
Is there no one I can write to?
No one dear enough
they’d read my words
and love me anyhow?
I have become so involved
with my involvement,
that people have wandered away.
I am not the child they knew.
The man they knew.
The customary, ordinary person
that spoke to them
and shared their thoughts.
I have made different friends,
cats, elephants, birds,
trees that lean patiently in the wind,
but they do not read the written word,
so I have no addresses
to send my postage to,
except pillows I stuff letters in,
and read when I wake up.