Something I wrote many, many years ago while living in London

If I fail to see you or to know you intimately and you remain a weaver of mysteries to me, will you at least concede to lift your inner veil and explore my complexity? If I light a candle for you in some darkened room and it makes palaces of cobwebs, brings tenderness and hues, will you maybe choose to recognise my pains that are past and yet remain? If I become a shadow, an apparition by light of day will you at night invite me to where imagination plays and cast a spell on me that colours me with depth and puts conviction in my step? If you begin to falter and your solidity wears thin through the constant brushing of tears against your skin, will I not invent a story that laughs joyously as you weep and succours you in sleep?


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