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.