My Dear

My Dear, You say you can't write. When you speak - your voice - Your words, erratic - halting Shine of Emily Dickinson, Unexpected - but lovely all the same. I lay my head to your chest, And the steady rhythm there Is akin to that found In the floorboards of Edgar's lair. (But still very much alive.) You say you can't find the words. our eyes meet and i am lost(so lost) never coming up for air (the beauty) unending flow poor punctuat.ed bad grammar-so poignant (not unlike) cummings's craft My friend, you say That you can't write poetry either. Yet when we touch, I am lit with a fire; My soul is filled with a song Carried by notes that resemble Mrs. Browning. In that moment, naught can be wrong. My dear, You say you can't write. Perhaps it's because The words, the rhythm, the inspiration And fire Of your great genius Has passed through our correspondence To me. So, My muse, I thank you For teaching me to write.