I am not here.
   In a sense, I am this paper;
   my expressive brow, my smile,
   my chin, ears, nose, and hazel eyes —
   these elements which are my face
   move and wander through the fretful
   jumble of lines and dots and grace-
   less curves — and yet, somehow, you might
recognize me.

                              I am not here
                              in front of you,
                              breathing near you
                              and whispering.

                              Nor am I here
                              cherishing time
                              spent together
                              in evening's light.

I am not here
   in the sense I might like to be —
   as something more vigorous than
   a haphazard arrangement of
   words on a piece of white paper —
   and although I rue this distance,
   understanding, yes, your reasons,
   I write these words for you to read —
a bridge between.