I liked the way you kept to yourself
The handiwork and workings of your head
How you captured the streaking winter skies
And filtered them through your pen
I can only with to say the things I can’t aloud
Scribble out in tongues and then make sense of it

Is it even necessary?
Why must it all make sense?
What makes meaning such a vital part of ourselves?

So I watch you, I ask myself

You took the crisp air of morning
And with it you strung your guitar
Don’t worry about it now, we’ll make sense of it later
Let it out, play it out
Write the words that you can’t say
Itching at the tips of your fingers

Then you wove the clouds together
You asked me to write it out, but
I do it for myself, for my own peace of mind
I catch the light in my irises
And let it out through my mouth
It won’t make much sense to you, but
It’s what I need for now.

(10-02-09.)