I see in myself a troubadour;
a mute, wandering minstrel.

For though I have not the courage to
read my words to you aloud,
I could write to you until the end of days.

I could write for you all my secret tales –
some real, some imagined; all delicious.
Or scribble my wildest wishes on a note-scrap you
dropped when you left me behind for your day.

My typewriter and I would be in cahoots –
me hiding behind with my whispered words,
it standing bravely forward with its mechanical strength;
each covering the tracks of the other.

We could travel the world this way;
filling in each other’s weak spots –
and eventually, if I am lucky,
end up at a beginning.