I've decided to do it. The words are coming, now, at 2:45 in the morning. I won't make it; I won't make it, but I am going to try. My fingers are flying: lighting strokes on plastic letters, and the images stored up all day are pouring out.
I am unashamed of my love. I will write it out, a letter or poem at a time, and - there it will be, transformed from a cloud inside my mind to something tangible.
A poem I wrote once, in April:
Reaching Out: Part 1
If my slaved-over, soul-exposing words
can reach your heart, then the world could
never give me any promises more potent than
your smile, your open eyes.
If the sentiments exchanged would find in
you a range in which to roam, then all the soul
of hearth and home would hold no fetters on my
heart: it is gone, but not alone.
If these keystrokes or this pen could pin
your heart to mine, then all the stitched-up
pain of life would be a piece of cake, dark
wine, and moonlit mounds of pine.
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