Who writes to them when their words have finished and the ink has dried up?
Who inspires them again when all words are dead and gone?
Who shows them words that are just for them with each letter penned with adoration?
Who writes to the poet?
We ruin things.
But, do you know what?
You - I'd love to meet you again but we'd do things a little differently.
I wouldn't say 'hello' first and you'll never notice me.
To keep it warm and protected from external elements.
To not allow things to upset its equilibrium.
To maintain hope that there'll be light again tomorrow.
"Hmmm? Solitude, just being there in the moment. Knowing that I do not need to be anywhere else. I crave quiet, so much quiet that I can hear my heartbeat. Peacefulness, so much, that birds sit with me. I crave that I do not need another, so I know not to give so much importance to them, or that my good mood relies on them. I crave I am happy in my own. Sufficient and honest enough to myself that I am all I ever need".
