I wish to confess these thoughts,
but I’m not sure you would know how much they meant.
To confess such thoughts, pure,
to lay such worth to be appraised.
Written thoughts, daily,
with only a vague dream to be dreamt.
Where is it, my darling?
What is it you wish to say?
When you were small, did you image you’d be captain to
be presented with such written thoughts
published behind a rambling heart?