I wish I could speak to you.
No, not to some invented friend
or long lost love dredged up to make a point.
But to you who shape my words right now,
performing my piece in your room,
in the conservatory of your head.
I wish you could respond in counterpoint
more beautiful than my meager melody
(for new songs are sweeter than those rehearsed).
I wish to play in orchestra,
or at least a soft duet.
But if we were to speak
we would not improvise
or at least I would not.
We would speak.
They would not be new words
And we would part disenchanted
of any grand illusions we held.
Conversation is a vast wild place
I sometimes wander through
like a baker without a map.
No that is too strong.
Conversation is a grocery store
and I wander through it
like a confused young man.
Until I know you well,
and even then my phone might
shut off in an obscure neighborhood.
That is why I sit at a desk
plotting points on paper.
I am charting a course for you
to follow towards new vistas
but I am also teaching myself
to navigate without a map.