She writes poems about you. I know. Don’t you know why? I’m ruinous, she tends to dwell on those. You’re only ruinous because you like to be alone. I know, she changed that, I want her company more than my own Isn’t that strange? Yes, yes it is, but that’s what it is You are so silent, why don’t you write for her? If I could write the way I thought the pages would be endless What if she mistakes your silence for lack of love She won’t, I trust that she won’t How can you be so sure? She trusts me enough with her memories, I trust her with this. How special.. Indeed how special, how lucky I am to be the subject of someone’s poetic musings, how blessed I am to hold her fellowship, how fortunate I am to deserve a smidge of her love. As someone who’s decorous, she’s bounced in and brought my mere existence to life, it is melodious in her presence. It is all better with her, since her. I have kept my love to myself because I cannot find the terms to describe it. But she speaks my language well, I am sure, she knows even if I don’t know how to say.
for maizies @mioriu
