Crazy

Crazy Blue Clouds before a storm

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?

No.

I no longer trust my ability to know truth.
and yet somehow.
i believe.

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.
 

 

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