You read a poem and think about your life.

The words spill over the dam of your reservoir and seep into the soil of your brain.

Why do you hide yourself from this fact?

The writer couldn’t have known any other reality than your own when they wrote this piece.

They could not have anticipated the oneness you two now share.

If you hadn’t let their words into your spine, tingling through the vertebrae,

touching the synapses with fluttering hands, gentle and soft,

wouldn’t they have known their failure to reach their destination?