Point of view
set in stone—  initials
carved for one.

A barrel of seeds
set upon the crown
to be picked at,

and now the world
has, finally, leant me
its axis.

And every night
I asked myself
The same question
"When will I stop thinking about you?"
And every night
Every answer
Silence

I think I like them,
Dare I say 'love'?
Is that allowed,
Is that arrogant?
The way they think
The depths and dark
Their endless analysis
Their lone laugh.
God, the eyes...
Sometimes cheeky,
Sometimes blank
Stone-blue grief chasms
Flecks of menacing.
Im confronted
And comforted.
They stir me like
I've stirred them,
Both in survival
And in good will.
The way they talk with
Their hands, freed,
The way they cry
Whenever the need.
I like them, I think.
Hearing their wit
Tranquilising wisdom,
I want more and more.

Can you write me?
Can you write me a poem?