(about 2006)
I want to read
but can only write . . .
who am I?
I'd tell you my fears,
but they're spilled in the mist
and floating, suspended,
in the air.
They came from somewhere,
and they've somewhere to go.
It can't be where I'm headed . . .
Who am I?
There's the times of hope,
mostly silent revelation;
that tell me of your secrets.
We walk our path-
once started, it never ends.
For better or worse-
we are friends.
I think the good times
are every moment
we share,
They blend with the bad times
like tonight- bad because
well, because
I have so much to say,
so much I want to confide in you.
I'm afraid to hurt you with my honesty-
that your eyes will fall
and turn the other way.
I love you
and I cannot see you do that.
I should know by now
you won't.
But I can't know
until I tell you
who I am.
