Every time I try to write a letter
I can find a million ways to better
The words I place right on the page
Paper and ink, a written stage
On which I placate my unrevealed self
As if this book was a display shelf
Bound, wrapped, unexposed, but true
The mysteries held in me, in you
For years, we tried to grow — apart
But I knew that you held my heart
For so long, we’d gone our separate ways
I thought you’d left me here to stay
Here we are, we meet again
Finally ready to make amends
The irony is that between us two
There’s no right or wrong — only truth
So, my dear, my wondrous creation
Are you here by obligation
Or did you come to finally concede
So that we may combine our realities…?

MG