To Whom

To whom do I write this letter,
Of which my words do flow?
The fortunes said to write it,
But to no one that I know.
T'is powerful,
Not a sonnet.
The words don't really match.
But, here I am,
With a letter,
Of which the fortunes told.
Am I doing properly?
Is a question I don't ask.
For I've known since I was young,
I know more than I tell.
I've reread the instructions,
Twice or maybe more.
But still, I've no receiver,
For where this letter to go.
My dearest is too far away,
For any letter to reach them.
My best has jested far too long,
For any letter to touch them.
Still, I write this letter,
As the fates have told me to.
Perhaps I write it to the self,
That I know not but soon will?
Perhaps one day I'll read this,
With a dearly beloved at side,
And laugh at the foolishness,
Of him who write without a recipient.