You complete me and do so in every sound you now mouth, every movement of your tongue, every muscleβs adjustment to effect fresh shape to phrase, in every quick, shallow breath giving sudden pause and turn to the next silence.
You complete me at this reading and so I am deaf to the closing, blind to the ending you gift me and ignorant of the next stair with no balustrade to steady where you leave the first me to rise to find, first-hand, the landing that completes me
triggered by Walt Whitman's 'To You'. "...now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem..."