I write for you.

I write for you.

Not that I know how, or why.

But it is a need

I continue to feed.

A compulsion,

An itch that must be scratched.

A restless confusion

A baffling riddle

That leaves me little reason

To find a solution,

Or resolution.

The words lie within,

Hidden,

But somehow, I know

They wait to be released.

Bubbling and jostling together,

I sense their anticipation.

Sometimes,

They can tumble onto the page

Unbidden,

Wholly formed.

Sentences can appear,

Without any thinking

Taking place at all.

The ease of it

Leaves me in wonder.

Is it arrogance?

Am I a fool

To believe such a simple thing

As these few lines

Can stand close scrutiny,

When so little thought

Is given to their construction.

It halts the momentum,

Until I think of you,

And for that moment

Time, as a concept,

Is a nonsense.

It is only a thought,

But it fills my heart

And joy is a blanket

That enfolds me.

A different kind of warmth,

That massages my soul,

All thought of loss,

And fear of lethargy melts away.

I am a dancer,

And magician.

Not an artisan,

Or even a word technician,

But an artist.

Painting love in words,

No longer absurd,

But heaven sent,

And they bloom,

Like flowers

With an aromatic scent.

I string them in a series

Of finely cut bouquets,

Gift wrapped,

Tied together,

With a neat little bow,

And write a dedication,

With love,

From me to you.