If I were to write a letter
Sure there’d be too many page
Of petals and scents of the finest flowers
In place of what you mean to me

And if I bold enough to fold
Those sheets into paper planes
Reinforce their wings with soliloquy
Of your absence and the pain

You would read of roses
Every colour under the sun
A field like those of tulips
A bouquet never large enough

If you were to get a letter
So wrapped up in itself
A heart bound to each word performing
All it could from the pen that spelt
Ad if the envelope from which compressed
If unmarked and unaddressed
Would you know the author to have been?
Would you know you intended to receive?

You would read of roses
Every colour under the sun
A field like those of tulips
A bouquet never large enough

Sure it not
Be properly explained
What you mean
What you’ll always mean to me

You could read of roses
Every colour under the sun
A field like those of tulips
A bouquet never large enough