My Dear,
You say you can't write.

When you speak - your voice -
Your words, erratic - halting
Shine of Emily Dickinson,
Unexpected - but lovely all the same.

I lay my head to your chest,
And the steady rhythm there
Is akin to that found
In the floorboards of Edgar's lair.

(But still very much alive.)

You say you can't find the words.

our eyes meet and i am lost(so lost)
never coming up for air (the beauty) unending flow
poor punctuat.ed bad grammar-so poignant
(not unlike) cummings's craft

My friend, you say
That you can't write poetry either.

Yet when we touch, I am lit with a fire;
My soul is filled with a song
Carried by notes that resemble Mrs. Browning.
In that moment, naught can be wrong.

My dear,
You say you can't write.

Perhaps it's because
The words, the rhythm, the inspiration
And fire
Of your great genius
Has passed through our correspondence
To me.

So,
My muse,
I thank you
For teaching me to write.