kindred spirits
*for Album, who has helped me heal more than I ever thought I could*
I want to think,
you’re writing about me.
If I’m pressed somewhere
like leaves of
dried clover —
Lost somewhere among the pages
of your endless collection
of nightstand notebooks —
dripping
of hyperboles golden.
I want to know,
if you’re writing about me.
If I am singing all your stanzas,
peeking shyly between
the strings
of letters.
An allusion of perfect persona,
forever burned into your
psyche.
I want you to know,
I am writing to you —
no stories, no parables,
no rhetoric perplexed.
I am trying, and trying, and
trying trying trying trying —
I will keep trying,
keep fighting,
with endless writing,
till the words between us ring
clear and are right again.
You are worth all the paper in the world.
