“Why don’t you write something?”, she asks me.
I think of things I should have put on paper a long time ago,
Things I have lost somewhere
Things with no maps to find them
Things i only see sometimes on half-misty mirrors
and half-frozen dewdrops.
“I am thinking”, i lie, but not too much,
Because although I don’t think of writing anything new now,
I do think of words I once wrote,
And of the things she read in my words
And I wonder if it was my writing them
or her reading them
that gave the words any meaning.