I was asking him a question.
He kept a straight face,
Never looking at me,
No response whatsoever,
Or any indication that he heard me.

And I,
Knowing fairly well,
That I EXIST as an individual,
Started questioning my existence.

I may be a mess but that’s ok
I’m just a rough draft
My stanzas may be uneven
My rhyme scheme nonexistent
But I carry the seeds of a masterpiece

These scattered scribblings will someday mature into defined and refined lines
My tiny wriggling tadpoles of thought will grow legs and a voice
They will explore territory they never dreamed existed

This writer’s block will topple off the edge of my desk and fall to the floor with a clatter

My words will burst through the dam,
First in awkward little leaks
But then in strong, steady streams
That leap forward into unfamiliar territory
With a laugh and a gleeful scream

These nattering notes will resolve themselves into chords and phrases
A motif will leap out of the disordered madness
Stumbling steps will lead to confident strides
And the audience will be satisfied

But for now I remain unfinished

It's late
And I'm thinking of you
I hope you dream of me
And realize you love me