You are here with me in the tight grooves, where underbrush sneaks through my sleeves and leaves little pricks of blood. But you only smile, knowing I will heal and that those human wounds are nothing compared to the ones of the soul I still am looking to
find solace for.
I don't know how you're walking with me. Are you just a face resting delicately, weightlessly, on my shoulder? Or are your formless footprints echoing as you drift along my side, neither falling behind nor racing too far ahead, for you
wait on me.
And I am listening to piano compositions in my head, innocently playing the black and white keys, wondering if you hear the mysteries I am afraid to say aloud. But will you guide me? Make me courageous enough for confessions of my soul, of saying I don't know how to make peace with myself and how I know I've done wrong, but I still torture myself, deciding not to show I care. I just want you to see my confusion. Most of all, I wish for my hand to reach out for you and show you,
