I really want to thank you.
Whether I'm being sarcastic or not,
You'll never know.

I feel like every time I write something,
It's for someone to read.
Spooky government guys,
Or girls who really like fries.

But sometimes it feels like I don't want to.
I don't want you to read about
Who or what affects me.

Sometimes I worry because my friends can read these things.
My friends, they enjoy poetry too.
My English teacher's on here.
She says she approves.

It's weird, isn't it?
How small the world is.
Yet I never see who I really want to.

I see uncles and aunts
And really long lost cousins.
I see my grandma's friends everywhere.
At weddings and all affairs.

But the only way I can see
Who I really want to.
Is through writing and pictures,
And trust me,
I do.

But it feels like it can't be real,
not yet.
I have eight months to go,
And I fret and I fret.

I can't wait to see those
Amazing blue eyes.
The upturn of blond hair,
And your shirts like the skies.

Your sense of adventure keeps me going.
It's weird,
I know,
how these words keep flowing.
You'll never read them.
But if you do,
Hi,
I suppose.

I miss you.
With your laugh,
So infrequent,
And your entrances.
Through fire escapes?
     That's perfectly normal to me.
From under a table?
      That's pretty normal to see.
To scare me on a staircase?
      Of course, why not?
Hanging off a balcony?
    Fine, but keep your thoughts.

But the one entrance you have yet to make.
Is the one I want you to most.
The one that leads you back into my world.
The one that makes the legend unfurl.

I have documents upon documents
I'd love you to read.
But you never really will,
It's not hard to believe.

Poems and lists,
Monologues galore.
But wait and look,
Here's one more.
And you ask,
What is it truly for?

A thank you,
Dear friend
For being who you are.
And simply to ask you to look up at the stars.

For I can see the moon,
And so can you.
And I just wish,
I could see you too.