Were you anticipating these words? Do you approve of them?
Where will you go, when you have left?
How can I help you? To know me? To know yourself? Am I so ambitious? Are you?
Can you help me to be content? I might stop writing, then, at last. Or would contentment lead to words -
more truth; more clarity; something we could share; something you could carry with you, to read when unsure?
Shall I proclaim the world as beautiful? Shall I elaborate?
I've cut my thumb, on the jagged teeth of a tape dispenser. Is the blood beautiful? It is shocking. Red.
Beads of red. For you, I will make them into jewelry. They are like rubies.
And the vegetable korma I eat is like an island, green, rising from a white sea. Rice like a white sea.
Where have you seen a white sea? Can you see it now?
Is it rice for you?
I can give you so little, but perhaps now you have seen a white sea.
I can not find you. I can give you little.
To me you are a dancer, one in particular, who danced as she tended bar.
To me you are cold, in a black coat, in the cold fog of a Philadelphia evening.
You have just passed by my window.
I can not begin to guess you.
Please.
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