I can read you like a book.
I know why you do things
say things
I see your motives and your reasons
I have annotated and reread
utilized marginalia
I have highlighted my favorite passages
so that some days when I’m sad
I can find them and smile.
I have done an in-depth analysis
(aren’t you proud of me,
LA teachers?)
Of your plot twists and motifs
And I get you.
I grasp your deeper meaning
and I can read you
(like a book).
But some days
you’re written in
Greek or
some language that I have no hope of ever translating
and I see that you’re saying things
shouting them
crying out
but the words mean nothing
and they contradict each other
and I think that I grasp a phrase but then I realize I’ve been reading it wrong
and I puzzle for hours:
why, how, what?
What do you mean?
And I don’t understand.
But I can see
in the curve of that letter
and the shape of your chapters
your sadness
which is a part of everything
you do
and is the reason for everything
you say.
So, I can read you
like a book.
