…for including my words in your life, for picking the pages of the book. For knowing my inner life.
When we write we live many lives, some days we are closer to the stars other times we are planting the moon in the deepest pit in our home, we are always buried by the weight of our stories and when our words hide we fold the emptiness and hide it in the crease of the pages. We write footnotes and press flowers with memories.
One day maybe I will write a letter to a poet.