I am writing this to you, no for you, you would be god could be god if I believed, permitted you to believe, cast you in that role but I don’t, don’t grant you how could I? he maybe she they, if you insist I’ll get over myself gift you the belief all seeing knowing mining reams of baleful show don’t tell you’ll have to interpret what I mean without words.
(Even if I don’t know myself.)
You, like I, must read between the lies I put down scrabble around spending more time on rhythm than hues although your hue, who? is glimmer dark, just one fold away from bewilder but maybe you, she slides her hand between the silks, feels for the real I’ve hidden there, biding myself, all of me, I and all of us, the singular us a rabble of letters I’ve yet to join up.
You’ve always had such lovely joined-up writing you say to me I blush and sometimes I can’t make it out one of the singular us just wrote it down a moment or so ago and now none of us can make it out, one of us titters when reading it out, I can’t bleed my own writing the you in me says what does it all mean do you think you could help us out?
SANDERLINGS 