Letter To Myself
You long for words
that I cannot say-
I don’t own these words
and I have given them before.
They were taken away,
by my own hand,
cruelly to each (of us.)
I will not give them again.
Utter them in darkness,
while I’m beguiled, forlorn, or amused.
I don’t know what certainty is-
Does it exist,
but as a squint from a distance,
as threads in fabric intertwine?
My heart betrays me often,
and my mind meddles
in my affairs.
I spend too much time calculating
where the next raindropp may fall,
studying ripples in a pond
during a heavy storm.
I cannot run between them.
Maybe I should accept:
There is rain.
There is life.
And there is shelter.
But I am not one to stay dry-
I will get wet.
Even drenched.
And there is no umbrella…