I reached out for you in the ripe darkness, the purple fuzzy vision of my confused subconscious. You had the uncanny ability to touch back.
Don’t flinch — my sharp edges aren’t meant for you. They’re my wall. You did ask why I could only talk with you this way.
I have this horrible ability to feel like people can read my mind. It’s scary and invasive, but also strange when you don’t understand.
You inspired me like no other — I can now write again, freely, my thoughts nimble through wrinkled finger tips while I’m only twenty-one —
I read you poems on days when you felt numbness corroding your soft skin. When sequence raveled out of sound like balls upon the floor.
My mind now feels just as cleaved as yours must, yet in a different way. Do I protect you from myself? Or do I hold you closer?
Please — help me help you.