Tuesday night into the am.

I work, writing to you between the in betweens
of semi-concentration,
I am missing our talking.
The nights of thought

In back and forth.

I longed for words to build upon.

Stories to tell and recreate

with fingers and ink and fibre optic.
Making magic as they appear,
these shapes of meaning form before my eyes.

My layers collapsing before you.

I send you some words stolen from a song
Words born to another but borrowed by me.
But they are just words, only words.
And words are cheap, if not for free,
for us all who make use of them,
in careless elegance, in extravagance.

Free. For are we not free to tell and talk,
free to spit them out or speak them softly?
Free to take refuge and give solace?
Free to use to please, to anger and cause pain,
sometimes beyond our very own selves
and parts of us that reside in others. For they do.

It is what I stand by now and then-

They are all I have to share of, now with you.
With these miles between us,
miles that cannot be measured even in number,
I seek a closeness of a kind I cannot define.
I want a unity, of my own.