when I wrote to him
He wasn’t a stranger,
many would have assumed otherwise
’twas as if I’d known him
all my life.
no ideas of where he’d been
or what he looked like
just a simple understanding
he was broken, working
and incredibly wise.
so much of what felt like home
was his on the daily, but
consequently
still pictures of my childhood, were opened up by him and shown
to other people I
I didn’t know.
written by a man who knew me already
yet barely was the reality,
if at all actually,
oh, how it resonated with me so.
it being his voice, I hadn’t heard,
but my mind understood
my heart longed to be near,
these hands feared, for the touch
of his skin would be too much,
mine eyes surely would tease how
not a man such as him,
could ever understand a girl like me.
yet he is within me,
upon a heartbeat I no longer recognize.
conspicuous am I about
these cries of longing
living on shaking fingertips
of a poetess,
who believes she’s found a way
to feel complete,
but who would agree.
