At first you were over my head but
I needed to read you.
I plowed through endless new vocabulary,
dictionary in hand,
faithful to an urge to discover
what you were about.
I began to perceive your patterns,
your themes revealed themselves and slowly changed
from greens to browns but
I needed to read you,
so I kept going.
I turned your pages slowly,
careful not to miss the lessons of truth
that must surely be contained within.
And I found them-
For you were a novel in progress,
addressing itself, directionless-
one that I needed to read
so I would know what to write.
And somewhere past the middle, I guess,
after the conflict-ridden heart of it,
I knew how the story would end:
it ends when I close the book despite
curiosity, despite promise of a better reward
for time invested learning you, learning me-
it ends when I don’t need to read you