I scrawl my scattered dreams on screeds of paper. They drift and tumble about me like fading weeds in the wind… shallow rooted, stunted and unfinished.
Then you step in. Scarred hands catch, to sift and sort each stained and tattered scrap and sheet. Your blood lovingly brackets and dots; sometimes re-arranging, but never striking through.
To you my every word holds meaning. Every paragraph and half-formed sentence are a precious record of a story worth the listening.
And when I sigh the final breath, I will smile to see the symmetry we have wrought of it together.