Were I to tell you what I truly think,
whether in prose or verse, in sign or rhyme,
aloud through words, or silently in ink,
all in a rush, or halting, over time;
Were I to lay all out: my heart, my head,
my deepest mind, my terrors, my conceit;
bundle and send them, to your care consigned;
for your eyes only, naked at your feet;
Were I to do this, and were you to say:
I see; I understand. Itís as I dreamed.
There is another being here who may
be just like me. If this were as it seemed,
and we held nothing back, would each possess
new life, or one more lease on loneliness?