there was Rumi who stuck a chord in me. and there was you who did the same. something about stirring people's souls is so individual and queer that it chokes me if i think too much of it. Rumi, you, i.
i wish you thought of me as me, without poetry, without anything. i wish you loved me with nothing, for nothing. but how may i ask you to love with nothing, when you never loved in the first place?
I've nothing else -- to bring, You know --So I keep bringing These --Just as the Night keeps fetching Stars To our familiar eyes -- Maybe, we shouldn't mind them --Unless they didn't come --Then -- maybe, it would puzzle us To find our way Home --
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