So many words I have written
of you, and most unfair
and unflattering, though not all
untrue. I know well what you
have not heard me say, I have stopped
asking what- instead, I ask how.

How can I tell you, then?
Though my words sing, sometimes, I shy
from the daunting task of trying
to show you as I see you,
completely, and not just facets
that place hurtful words in my mouth.
How can I show you the good
as well as the bad, the soothing
as well as the painful?

Do I tell you of the first person
I trusted completely, the one I learned
was better than she thought and stronger
than all else? Do I tell you of the only person
I felt safe around for years? Can I show
how much strength and honesty
you have taught me, without questioning
the source of everything
I have grown into?

Do I show you through your example, when
I called you, needing escape, knowing
I could run to you, I was always right?
How even when you could not carry
your own burdens, you tried to lift
mine, as well?

Do I try to explain
the unexplainable, the way our minds
connect, the way our laughter
makes everything better, even if only
for a minute, the way we will fight
with each other, but always for
the other?

Can I tell you of how I
can’t find words to describe you, how
when copying your words
to my notebook I spent half an hour
and five pages because my handwriting
was never good enough for any
of your prose, how sometimes I
am still surprised you
are my friend?

Know, please, that I do not write
of the good, because there is far
too much of it. I am a coward, afraid
of cheapening or making cliché
from what I could not do without. When I tried to think
of what would happen, should this
cease to exist, in order to ascertain, to gauge
how essential it is, my chest twinged
and I fell silent.

I have written to you
of pain, and silences,
of walls, and abysses,
of blood, and fear, and anger.
And though my unwritten words
are never enough, know
that I sing of relief, and communication,
of bridges, and filled emptinesses,
of healing, and happiness, and love
and clichéd poetry. Know
though at times I may not want to, though
my song is at times bitter and painful, though
sometimes my song is not heard at all,
the underlying notes are always happy
and they are of you and for you and it was you
who taught me to sing them.