The thing about love letters

If brain research shows that men have a difficult time hearing (understanding) women because of the timbre of their voices (oh there's so much, you all know I am not about citation - some says it is because the higher range is harder to decipher, others because the gammut that our voices run is more complex and a long list of etcéteras), then perhaps someone could elucidate for me what kind of research would be necessary to explain why men don't "hear" women through the written word. (Anyone want to take a good sociological whack at that one? Nah, didn't think so).
And yes, I have Deborah Tannen's book (not her ebonics stuff, I mean obviously, You Just Don't Understand) neatly stacked on my shelf among the other scads of "ne touche pas" things that I would rather be reading than what I am presently chained to. However I am struck, once again by the fact that we are truly doomed to not understand one another, hell of a basis on which to construct a life, a family, a just society...

I was pondering writing a letter, a real handwritten letter, one that would somehow make clear all the things that hurt me, that I am grateful for, that I need. I rolled the idea around my cerebral cortex for several nights in a row, feverishly composing in my midnight brain (very removed from my daytime one) the insights that I would have, the things that I would say, how I would say them, how I would peel down the distance that is ever-building, tearing down walls with my words. I wanted to write beautiful words that would demonstrate the depth of my feeling, that would make it impossible to fall into the same unfortunate patterns, that would open up the doors to a meta-conversation necessary to cure all our ills.

But I stopped myself.

Better to hide one's self and one's true feelings.

I realized that it doesn't matter what words come from me after all, they are always his words, the ones that make or break my dangling thread of hope, and they are never, were never, will never be in that format. And so I decided that once more, I would guard my silence because an unrequited love missive is perhaps the most treacherous of all written communication.

And it occurs to me (as I am trying to recreate love letters between a man and his wife for one of my many silly projects) that I have absolutely no idea what a love letter from a man is supposed to look like, to sound like, never having received one in this short life of mine. How do I write, with verisimilitude, something I have never seen, will never hope to see?