I find it easier to write things than to say things. I think I sometimes hide behind printed words. My actual printing, the writing of my hand, is scribbled and nearly illegible. Sometimes when I write out a thought and go back to read it, it feels foreign and distant to me.
I imagine. I escape away inside to a place unreachable. It's not often light there.
One thing keeps me grounded when life becomes too real for me: thoughts of you. (My eyes have well-up with tears and the world has just now become literally blurry, a manifestation of what is often only inside.)
I don't know you but I know you. I've never met you but I never leave you.
As I sit bedside to patients who have nothing - no one to visit them, no home to go to - the emptiness inside myself identifies. I worry. You're too good for me. This I know.
How do I earn you? How do I not harm you? How do I leave you better off because of me?
I don't need ink on skin to mark me as yours. I have been yours forever. You are written all the way through me. When I am buried and long in the ground and dissolve back into the earth, you'll still be written on me.
The hand of God wrote on me "right for you."
Through every cell, every sphere, and all dimensions are the words, "Mine."
Ours is love; I wait for you.
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