“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.


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