Sir.

 

I wailed write, write

And He love, love

And we spoke of the same thing.

I held on to bundles of parchment,

They did nothing but bleed the oil from the fingertips,left them dry, split, and tender;

It gave me no place to find wisdom,

No place to leave my own.

I had dreams of someone,

Who would pour forth tears I had not cried for myself;

Someone, to Read back to me letters I had never written, or received.

I built Homes full of things that were to explain the condition of my heart, and all that it held.

I wanted for hands larger then my own, to hold everything that I felt was mine, all that had been entrusted to me, these hands that could hold mine without wavering.

I found love in my cheekbones,That I have never known,

Or fathomed,Pain from my heart, unpracticed;

Not knowing what it had missed since his failure

The burn of a healing wound, and the beauty of fresh covering.