Is it alright we talk this way, communicating in code of poetry? It's like invading minds, with a warrant. Hell, with written consent; Come in and figure me out! And when you get too deep, I'll throw you out. We talk in tongues, making sense only to ourselves and begging to be understood, yet we're too exasperated by the understated to explain; alas, here is our fault. So who's to blame? Which way do the fingers point, directing to the short circuit where the wires no longer reach? We talk, catch every other word, so in the end we're hearing gibberish we pretend to comprehend. Is it okay we talk this way? It's better that you hear my way, understand my side. Maybe then you'll start to see why sometimes I run or turn and hide. I'm embarrased by insecurities, frozen by concern, and moved by fading memories that, in my head, still burn. I like us better on a silver screen of life where audiences around us laugh and sigh in healthy envy; 'They're so perfect together.' And still I'm falling short of a concise translation of thought; still lost in separate worlds, mixed currency, muddled words, confused by nothing but confusion its self. And perhaps that's the clearest statement to be said. Another one may clear my head; I love you. Carrie