You wrote these lines for me.
You placed them here,
on this paper,
years ago.
Their ink glistened for an instant,
moist from your warm pen,
then dried forever, for me.
The vibrant blue curves and loops,
circles and hooks,
are evidence of your existence,
proof of my sanity.
I loved you when you wrote them
and love you still,
though I didn’t tell you then,
and cannot tell you now.
Were you thinking of me
when you wrote them?
It doesn’t matter.
I’ll pretend that you were.
And let me, pretending, write some for you.

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