I.

I am eager to hear
the talent my family
speaks of so often.

And I want to share
mine with you—
to prove to you that our
written scars bleed from the
same lifeline. I want
you to see me as

similar

to you.
So, I share.

In response, I expect a short, three line appreciation.
Instead you write
A two-page insight
inside the internal you.

Your legs locked at the
Ankles; your glasses
Fall off your nose slightly
Your posture is hunched;
Your hands shake, and
Your fingertips sit on
The letters of the keyboard,

You write.

II.

You lean into yourself...


“This is, however, my 3rd attempt to communicate my thoughts

in regards to your introspective reflection of interaction.”

I read automatically.

Like you are telling
the story of a made
up time.

Your choice of words
are attached; this opening is nothing
but clear and…
.

“At the outset, upon utterance of the very first few words from gramma's lips,

i was transported to a room, more long than wide, sharing a frame of time, you

and me together.”

Then you begin…


You don’t make much sense
but I know it means.







Something.
A subtle invitation—
something I’ve been
wanting for years—
to see the way you
wrap yourself around
your thoughts—
watching you as I
grow and notice the
peculiar things.


III.
I can’t seem to




understand what

what you are saying.

After all of these years, I
am finally here. You
give me exactly
what I’ve been
waiting on
and I have no idea
what
you
are
telling me
and a part of me
some part of me
is trying to cry.


III.


“(i.e ‘I am there with Katie’)”

Another part of me cannot understand
why because I have
no idea what I am looking
at. And I find it
frustrating that
I don’t know
what this is.
And I can’t tell you
anything about it
aside from—

it has meaning.


IV.


“…a lonely seed of discovery, of the burden I bear day in and day out…”

I am discovering that I can’t
keep my eyes off of your words
I can’t separate myself from your
voice,
tone…
your made to be narrative.
Made to approach our eyes and minds
in a pleasant way.

And sitting at my laptop,
my legs are locked at the ankles;
my eyes are squinted slightly;
My shoulders lean
Over, and my chin sits
On my fists.

I write.

Overwhelmed

with the
carried talent
that you bare and…


“…started, it must be finished. We are off to venture through

the falling darkness of night.”