someday the door will open. my door is closed; light which is apologetic, cool, and dim creeping under and around obstruction creates almost the absence of light.
Not metaphorical darkness, but my real room.
This place. Writing poems for you, I grieve and die In those faint-hearted cowardices
keeping me from possessing out loud the love that speaks.
Trudge into bludgeon. Someday the door will open; I will no longer write poems to you in the dark.
Do you think we could be happy, in something real? It could be greater than imagined. In just finding, accepting, hushing embarassment of toes in tepid water, first time, the first love I've ever declared first, the first I've ever had to, what could I find to hoard as a treasure?
I hoped you would be like the others and find me first.
Someday you will find me, eh? And take away that side of me, kill the honey in my imagined encounters, and miss opportunity because your emotions are not that strong?
Faint-heartedness was never the sole virtue of any particular group for long. Therefore, let me say--
Unless someday you find me, I will unearth you instead and see what you have to say, yea or nay, from your own side of the door.