I hope I'm easier to speak with than
most sixty-year-olds you've met. I can
promise to love you always, already,
even though I've known you only the span
of four threads of thought, if it will steady
your worries to know that. Because I do
think you're worth love, but maybe that's hard to
accept, on the spot like this. Go ahead,
try it. Resistance may surprise you,
maybe not. But let's return to what you said
previously; I apologize for
interrupting. I know I talk too much,
but you listen so well, even if I'm a bore,
that I find myself wanting to tell more

and more to you, almost like if I clutch
at our conversation, I could in turn touch
every place you've ever been hurt and heal
these scars I know nothing about—so much
pain stored inside them, set aside to deal
with later, except later came last year.
If you need me, just know that I am here
to help you. I am offering my hand,
but I don't know if it's anywhere near
enough. First I would need to understand
your situation, or else I would just be
swimming in the dark, eating with my eyes
closed, aware and yet unable to see
problems existing right in front of me.