I heard an angel speak to me.
She said he loves me.
In fact, the angel is real.
She's teaching me about "helping."
And when she speaks I listen.
And I think before I speak.
But when I write to her the quotes don't add up.
I wonder if she will wonder what I'm trying to say.
"I'm" not saying anything, the books are, but it makes me uneasy.
Oh and it also makes me perplexed to have confirmation that he may in fact be in love with me.
We've been through this before.
And I'm beginning to get the feeling we may go through this again.
Is it that I'm shocked?
I did so much work creating a story in tatters behind me.
The remnants are scattered across my states.
The ruin of me.
I'm actually collected.
It's the tale that's in pieces.
Not my version, mine is almost complete.
All the other accounts are distributed chaotically - controlled chaos.
When I hear the words, "I think he loves you."
I feel like a vested part of me is brought to life.
Like a vested interest.
Break, I cannot break.
However, I can sit and think a lot.
This is what I do now.
My mind seamlessly processes everything it's fed.
My most valuable processor.
I'm shy about revealing anything too specific at this time.
To say, "tonight" or "today" gives too much away.
Strangely, I do have a secret to tell you:
Half of what I write is fact and half fiction.
I put it to you to decide which is which.
I used to only write about my direct experience.
When I fell in love, you fell in love too.
I know you felt it.
My use of the word "you" has changed.
It used to mean mainly one person in particular.
Now it mostly means "the reader."
Something is changing, inside and out.
But to have a message from an island, a place where magic is happening.
To receive a message here, in a place that makes me "stronger, harder, faster."
It means, well, it only means what it means.
And to compose a message - a poem is a message - a letter too - is a creation all it's own...