What to say

I could talk of the flash of loneliness
When you said you were reading downstairs;
I could talk of the burn of solitude
When I bid goodnight to the air.
I could talk of the pain of want
When I sleep in my bed alone;
I could talk of the torture of yearning
When I get up and nobody’s home.

But the words just seem trite
And too old for my lips,
And I feel that I haven’t the right
To complain, for I’ll see you again,
And soon.

So I’ll tell you the news of the day
Whenever you drop me a line;
So I’ll tell you the details of school
When nothing else comes to mind.
So I’ll tell you all of my worries
Whenever I need to be cured;
So I’ll tell you all of my joys
Whenever I need to endure.

Then the words don’t seem trite
And too old for my lips,
For I feel that I haven’t the right
To complain, for I’ll see you again,
And soon.