This is for you. This is the thank you I would write you if our lives had not wound off different ways. It is the you I would show you if I could take tours in my head or let you look out of my eyes.
You hide in your stride: the kind of person who passes by unnoticed but deserves a stop.
You wear yourself with a shrug and a wry grin, hold yourself an open secret, knowing no one will ask. It amazes me that so few do. We miss so many treasures by walking too fast.
You are not the parade, never will be, never could.
You are the offhand side-street conversation over a spilled drink, something small but never forgotten: unexpected, unobtrusive, half laughter, half philosophy, and utterly moving. Yours is the quieter path of so much to say.
You live fully, broadly, generously, in the cooped-up cage of a little life and that each-day cut of courage puts me plainly to shame, though I’d never tell.
I wonder how you stay here, how you keep whole. I wish I had your secret but see you alien strange enduring.
You fumble for words, pitch for perfect, sacrifice with a smile and then fuss at falling short.
I wonder if you know who you are, if I should tell you.
Sometimes awkward, even kind of odd, you ring real and that is always beautiful. Your words sound bell-strong and true even when you are hollowed out with hurt caught in an always tomorrow.
You speak to me, stand beside me, walk with me till I leave, ask nothing.
Your kindnesses make no sense. I don’t deserve you, wonder who you see in me that makes you ask so little and give so much.
You make me like myself a better when you laugh though I’m not making a joke.
I admire you, yet wish you less yourself.
Expect to be happy, ask that.