Nonexistent Curiosity

If I were to write you a letter, would you reply?

If I were to release it to the sky, do you think it'll be able to reach up that high?

Do you think the gates of heaven would let an Earthly thing into the gates if it contained questions about the place I was always told was our real home?

Do you think the angels would allow a sinner's flawed letter to be gripped by your newly untouched fingers, where it was once held by my chubby sweaty palms just so I could let out a swell relief from my load of worries that won't leave me alone?

Pardon me, for I ask, how much of it is true?

How do I know that all of those tosses and turns I had every night, crying and praying for a sign were worth the time I would've truly treasured if I knew I would no longer be with you?

Oh, how I wished there was a way to talk, that border blocking each other out of both worlds: the living and the dead.

They say our souls only live through the memories of others, but how is that so if you have forgotten who I am, or have you not made it to the end?

They say that you're still with us, by our side; our guide.

But there are too many of us when you only have two legs, arms, ears, and eyes.

And that letter I wrote you, you never did reply... I never wrote it.

Because one soul can't cross the bridge of the living and of the dead without another.