I Read You

I read you. your hurts and worries - carefully framed and angled against the light, that the shadows might spill just so. Your happiness and laughter written out in vivacious discourse, buoyant and optimistic. Your anger sharp and jagged against the page. clinical observations and heated opinions. Brazen revelations and coy confessions. I read you in these things. In these thoughts you share. I read you and I guess - for guessing is all I have. Like trying to reverse engineer every raindrop in a storm - to discern the glorious color of the butterfly's beating wings. I read and arrogantly imagine I have some sense of you. however remote. However imperfectly perceived. However distorted by language and distance, by your inscrutable aspects and my implicitly flawed assumptions. I read and I believe that the quintessential part of you that extends out here into my blog and those other places where our lives ever so briefly touch - is knowable. Is something real – on its own terms and however you choose to define it. I'm not addressing your problems, because I don't really know them. But I know you - and you are wonderful. Broken and wound down at the bottom of a pool and totally wonderful. You'll pull through this and all else. You'll hold on when you need to and let go when you have to. And you don't need to hear any of this, I know. But maybe I needed to say it.