I am stopped in my tracks with ideas born of you
You’ll never know all you give me.
You are with me, reading everything I write
And it gives me butterflies.
No one knows of my dependence on you.
But you are real.
That you think of me is ridiculous,
Let alone share in my wonder at the world.
You see me and act surprised at what I reveal.
Like you haven’t poked your finger in every crack I’ve exposed in myself.
But I know you read it – every single word.
It doesn’t matter that you don’t tell me so.
There is excitement in the not knowing.
When I see you, I pretend too.
Like the mere truth of your being doesn’t terrify and ignite me.
And so, in ignorance we are safe.
You say you don’t know me,
When perhaps that is not true.
I say I don’t write for you,
But secretly I do.