Who else could possibly understand me the way you do?  You read me as if you wrote the book of who I am. Despite the fact, sometimes I travel where darkness presses against the sun, laying down nothing when morning warms the sweetness of life.  

On those days, when time casually says I am crazy and wraps around in streams that haunt me with a quaint imprisonment, your smile moves through me in a delightful pleasure, caressing my face with your ways.

Sometimes I sit with my heart resting on the winds of pain and sorrow, lighting up fear and anger in never ending skies.  You wait, because you know just what to do, standing silent, by my side.

Who else could possibly understand me the way you do?  When it rains, you never try to change the air I breathe.  When my sun is eclipsed by clouds of time and space, you never deny me the chance to stand with my eyes closed, until I am brave enough to open them and see.

You read me as if you wrote the book of who I am.  As time passes, I see that what is unsaid, stares back with a message that arrives on golden wings. No one else understands me the way you do.  Your fingers turn the pages of my soul, as if you wrote the book of me.