Before I was satisfied with the prestige brought by writing a couplet then I learned about haiku and loving its 5-7-5 lines as much as the first.
When I met you, various collections of Russian novels and southern poems I wanted to touch and read. Whether they’d be in prose, in episodes or in a grand narrative. Words to adorn you while you sleep. For how many versions, sure. I’d love to. When you looked at that spot near your city forming a triangle as you spent a good 10 minute stare at it from your Godparents’ condo, I didn’t know how engrossing that moment could be. Or when you walked out on the quite sidewalks and started reminiscing precious times around town, I’d trade any of my possession to write about that. How you opened a beer in my honor after we shared petty stories. And while you drove your Dad interestingly, I thought about more words to put that scene in a clear-cut poem.
I see you every time and it’s rare how consuming to find you in every word. Of course, there has to be some plots. Perhaps, plots could run like the Caucasian lad inheriting a necklace then, the necklace made him a merman. Or a series of detective plots written vividly only to find you the hero at the end part. Then, finding gold in the house of the peasants where you lived on your vacation but thought money could be destructive so you built them a school and the money for their books and their first teacher was you. Or maybe a collaborative work with different types of people doing humanitarian work in Nicaragua and in Tanzania.
Anything as in any thing.
Words just love you
as I do.