She reads Vonnegut after running out of cigarettes. She must not have known me to be a writer. What a title! I'm sure she must know that I would never claim such a title, & especially never say such to her.
She may speak of Ulysses or Grendel, of which only a small portion I know. She knows this. I've seen her looking, thinking, analyzing. I so hope she does not take this night as evidence, but she must. Where do I go from here?
I would love to learn to communicate & to say it all without tongue. I want her to hear song instead of voice, yet I cannot seem to change my patterns of explanation. I should be quieter in total; explaining more with my eyes than my tongue. I begin to shift my character & long for a reaction, but I'm sure she sees right through it.
It's daybreak around here, & she sits writing on unbound paper--like a note for her pocket to remind her of something important. I wish it was me, but my pride is learning, or I am learning It.
It is all unnerving, but beauty should be. What did she say beauty is? Probably not this island. I will gather the nerve & ask it again. I cannot let this go by...
One day (I'll show you)
I'll write beautifully
& apologise with my eyes to refrain
from blocking your insights.
I wish I could hear them, but insofar
my perceptions have been happiest
I let it all run shapes
and excite for
what comes of tomorrow.