an old incomplete poem..... found in drafts..
you tell me stars have a language, mountains grow taller, Bukowski still writes Neruda doesn't know love. You tell me Italy is the place, mirror is an occasional lier, silence means counting infinity. Earth, sometimes, abhors spinning. You tell me clouds hold our secrets angels live in flowers butterflies are little girls raindrops are like prayers You tell me the different meanings of seasons how buds gradually unfurl how leaves change their colors how flowers lose their fragrance how we live our lives in circles Y'know sometimes I feel there is a meaning to it all there is a meaning to what you say there is a meaning to what you do not say, but convey. I am tiny. I am little. I was mad. Now perhaps sane. But I still connect the dots to draw the paths you have planned for me. Stars are spilling light. Night is cold. It is December, again. You tell me you are close by. Too close that I am afraid to to...