A Fair Pair, I Dare Admit
It’s been a long climb since we’ve found the time,
but often you amble through my blind reflections.
Perfection? No. No. Far, far and away…
But we make a fair pair, I dare admit,
flawed and scuffed, but good enough.
When funny finds my mind, thoughts sways your way.
Or when the tears tear tracks along my cheeks
or odd events pop in on an unexpected sense,
I want to recount to you, just as it went.
But then the days slip by,
and winds of newborn moments gust or puff or harshly blow
and throw the withering thoughts where old ideas go to die.
You know the place better than I.
A notebook on one side, six hundred thousand words on the other, you stand—
a bridge between what is and what will cease to be.
Few can do as you, though stronger, faster, wittier ones will try.
You soar, growing more and more as my days grow less.
You’ll last someday, perhaps, once I’ve gone away.
You are my friend, but I abuse the silences you lend,
filing them with pronouns of the most unfortunate kind
—I, me, mine—
in a truly selfish way; yet still you stay.
If you could go, would you?
What story do you hope to find?
What line do you long for,
fine-tipped pen-friend of mine?