It was me on that road,
but you couldn’t see me;
too many lights out, but nowhere near here.

It was me on that road,
still you couldn’t see me,
and then flash lights and explosions.

Road’s end getting nearer.
We cover distance, but not together.

I am the storm and I am the wonder,
and the flashlights, nightmares,
and sudden explosions.

I don’t know what more to ask for,
I was given just one wish.

It’s about you and the sun,
a morning run,
the story of my maker,
what I have and what I ache for.

I’ve got a golden ear,
I cut and I spear,
but what else is there?

Roads and getting nearer.
We cover distance, still not together.

If I am the storm, if I am the wonder,
will I have flashlights, nightmares,
and sudden explosion?

There’s no room where I can go and
you’ve got secrets, too.

I don’t know what more to ask for,
I was given just one wish.

Language Weaves the Tapestry of Timeless Kindreds

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.“ 
-Alan Bennett

The aforementioned quote so poignantly explains my love affair with words, why I fall deeply for novelesque letters, emails, and even texts. To me, there is electric excitement in stumbling upon words wielded as swords to cut through the pretenses and show the core of a person, to declare their inner excavations, their unabashed thoughts. Especially their sweetest love. Certainly the ability to shape silent, shared thoughts in a manner so uncanny it causes profound piloerection might be a rare resonance in readers, for we often orbit around separate perspectives, but I’ve found it exists, scattered about the Universe like stars seeking completed thought processes in common constellations, and I’m a grateful for kindreds.