Letter To Rosie

I could tell you about the souls that I borrow, the words that I swallow, but that is my own sorrow. Let's stick to me, because after all these years you still do not see; that what you have got is really me. Last night I wrote you a poem, about how lovely you looked in that new gown. You returned me a frown. You told me ":Let's talk about you for a change." My writings just don't seem to do. But what can I tell you? I thought you already knew, your dear Edward, a writer that's true. Just listen, to these words that I brew. There is not more to me, then there is to you.