I read so many things
simply because they’re beautiful,
and follow words as though they are a trail
I am uncertain where it leads.
I have thought to write you letters.
I have often thought you are
the fiction in my head, and the make-believe.
I am always writing, though to whom
I have never written for fear
of how disjointed my thoughts can be;
a broken fragment, a simple but incomplete
idea, but the thought of you was still lovely.
Like a dream, where the trail took me,
where I meandered through forests,
then clearings, to stop only occasionally
to admire the untamability of all these
wild things. I had no control over,
never did, and never will,
where the words grew in the shadowy underbrush,
as though ferns, green and lush,
and in the clearings, as all flowers do
and are in love with the sun.
And it was here I have always been caught;
between lightness and dark,
and yet this, you always knew.