Long before he approaches, he has counted all possible outcomes, he has made up all appropriate sentences, he has thought of imaginative ways to get through, to speak the truth.
A shadow in disguise, a formless figure in the dark, he talks to me gently.
Slow are his moves, tender is his voice, as he speaks and his words linger above my head, before they enter my brain, my heart, my soul.
He moves like a ghost, he floats like a cloud in the sky, as he gets closer and closer, speaking his truth.
*
In time I see through him, I understand.
Clouds of doubt vanish, as he steps closer.
Truth is hard to swallow, so he paints it, he colors it, he bakes it into delicious cakes, into notes and celebrations and letters and words, beautiful words, metaphorical words my mind doesn’t understand but my soul nods, my heart agrees.
I can see him now, approaching me, I know his agony, his fears.
Oh how he fears me, as he comes closer, I may be too blunt, I may hurt him, while he speaks softly, he speaks tenderly, always in tactful metaphors, his truth deafening but smooth.
Not that he cares, but figuratively speaking, figurative man is a poem, while I am a short story, a poignant flash, yet too straightforward to be understood, but I hold his hand and I know, I know well, he makes me better and that together we are prose poetry and we will change the world.
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