It must have been Christmas. I remember the peculiar isolation that roads have on holidays when the only other cars you see are other single occupancies. I turned up the radio to better hear the voice I didn't know. Driving through stoplights set to flashing yellow, the words echoed in the tiny space of my car and it seemed they might leave marks where they brushed against the windows - dusty smudges like powder from a butterfly's wings.

I never thought you were the letter writing type
So now I see the words you chose the way you write
So I started to write back about the trees in the snow
And I saw a bird, couldn�t see what it was but I thought you�d know
You always surprised me

And if I wrote you
If I wrote you
You would know me
And you would not write me again

{PS - I found this in a book called "Love Letters, Lost" and it made me laugh and made me sad at the same time.}