And I could have written you a thousand letters with my fallen thoughts upon this paper...
I used to write poetry...
The Beauty of Partiality
I love the beginnings and the end.
And in the middle,
I love the room to question.
It is a playground to haunt.
A mysterious gaunt
That becomes so alert with understanding
As it is depicted.
The more distressed it becomes,
The more complex and stunning it appears.
You could live a life out of pure irony,
You could send letters to editors
Explaining it all,
But the world not would be able to interpret
The way that you so vainly address
Every issue with such ease,
As if you regretted it already,
But were hiding it so well.
If prudence is just,
Then why have foresight?
And why is it so bad to live miserably
When half the world
Is constantly restraining their regret?
I believe in the joy of sweet, stinging sorrow.
As if catharsis were granted
In step with meaning.
Then how could we not
Hold on to a half-placed world
So thoroughly incomplete
That the only way to achieve anything
Is to mistake it?
We live amongst the disposed.
Of yourself upon a hard bed
Where our faith does not exist.
I took that stack of papers
Down to your desk,
And I glanced at your work
Despite your request
To never let loose the meaning or intent.
You, silent player of what is right,
You, the hero of the night,
Christ has found his better brother
In you tonight.
You choose the way to leave.
It was nice of you
To give so much of yourself
To the imagination.
This way the softness
Can linger in feigned lust.
And the eagerness can vanish
Take effort to roll onto the page.
I am glad to give you that.
It is something, at least.
Do with my musing as you will,
You always did.