Dearest

Perhaps it’s the way that you know me so well without knowing me at all,
Or maybe I’ve just fallen in love with the way you care so damn much,
But there is a beauty in knowing that, even though the postman never delivers,
my thoughts and fears made it to you in the envelope marked with an X which you filed away for safe-keeping.

You’re my metaphorical hand to hold,
And my moonlight on the darkest of nights.
Though miles and miles away, I’ve never felt closer.

So rest your weary head, my dear, for I’m still here;
The winds of change nor the tsunami tides of tears will ever drag me away.
You’ve got me.

I realize that I said yesterday that I’m not a writer in the sense of fiction or poetry, but this just came out of nowhere. I’m very aware that it could use some tweaks and a little more love and a lot more thought. But here it is in a rough form. Perhaps an edited version of this will make an appearance before the end of the year.

Tomorrow, if the snow and the ice are still around, I’ll write about my good fortune so far on my “ice legs.” Shoot. I really hope I didn’t just jinx it. hmph. But if there is no ice or snow for me to write about tomorrow, I may discuss the beauty that was the kid in my Gothic Storytelling course this morning who was using his copy of The Dark Descent to cover up that he was reading his own novel. I found it to be entertaining.

So until tomorrow,

cheers.

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