And so it happens again,
the same words, but not,
same actions, but not,
same feelings, but not.
No.
All is unique in these
consecrate circumstances
we two (too) find
ourselves (with)in.
So these lines shirk the page
in a glorious,
albeit mispronounced,
declaration of what is
to come
and what so may
already be,
is it you,
is it me,
what if it's
both?
Will we see?
And what should provide such
inspiration
if not love
or hope thereof?
What could cause such
outpouring
of myself to another,
and her to me,
and ink to pages
as pages fill with ink,
but this?
This fair pairing
we almost are seeking,
which we bare our
hopes and dreams
and stars for the
taking. You.
You can be so many things
to me,
as much as these words
you inspire mean to me,
you can mean
more,
as many pages you will
(maybe, hopefully)
fill,
you can be more.
And as many things
you can be to me,
I must confess,
there are
many things you already are.