Sunday, April 12, 2009

Words Read

I read the words and wonder who they are written to, written for; hoping against hope, smiling as the tears fall, caught somewhere, centered within a whirlwind of paradoxical emotions held within my head.

I do not ask you to explain yourself, my author, so much as I ask you not to expect telepathy of me. Love is not shown by an ability to read the other’s mind but by a trust that those thoughts not heard, not understood, and not altogether encouraging are not malicious or betraying simply because they are hidden.

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