But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Khalil Gibran
I want to write fiction
to tell the tale of my truth.
I want to express what is inside me
without fear of anyone seeing it.
But I am compelled to tell the story
of how swept is my heart.
To prevent your loss of face.
I tell things that later I should regret.
But only because I don’t want you to know
how true this vein of solid silver runs.
But you too tell a tale
things you try to recover from
a verbal malfunction
that is its own true story.
But I hear it. I see it.
But do I trust it?
I no longer trust my ability to know truth.
and yet somehow.
Which I more or less confess to you.
How it all scares the shit out of me.
But I do so want to be that muse to you.
I tell you it is like a book
that I do not want to skip ahead to the last chapter.
I do not want to know the story ahead of time.
But that I want to take it page by page.
Later I think,
nor do I want to put the book down.
The story compels me.
I see your open face.
And I love you for it.
I want you to see straight through me.