your letters hold me up.
i can never repay you for them,
i can try, but my mind would be in the way,
the part of me that bursts all me,
when what you want to read, perhaps, is us.
that part to me, the us, is smaller,
smaller only to say more concise
not lesser, not lesser at all,
just more concise, of fewer subjects.
and so how should this read?
your words cause the me in me to bleed.
to run like many water paints through the grooves
and cracks of our one oil canvass.
to gather in pools of brown and green
at the base forming signature me.
its dawn now, the i of all is rising.
this i also bleeds and rubs itself
into every nook it can, breathless,
pushing out, a shove without care,
a relentless light on a never ending stair.
and where do you go now
when you are not reading or writing,
what part of you is you when you are not telling?
before dawn where does the you of you hide,
in other words, where is your other side?
shall i venture to guess? yes,
this is where you keep your box, here is
your opposite realm, your inside thoughts.
you keep them in the me that is me
and you stir them about with every letter to us.