I spy

A typewriter

An ancient

One that

Speaks foreign

Languages but

Aren’t all

Things the

Same aren’t

Things we

Feel translated

Why then

Does it

Sit there

Unassuming does

It wait

For someone

To type

To play

It’s keys

And once

Again be

Whole are

We all

Not like

That waiting

To be

Found discovered

And free

The funny

Thing about

Lamps we

Need them

In the

Dark but

Forget them

In the

Light the

Same goes

For desire

The odd

Thing about

Doors is

That they

Open in

And open

Out just

Like us

I guess

I open

Within to

You and

When not

I’m without

And so

We sat

And ate

And shared

Enough of

Things stories

And jokes

And times

Past and

It was

Then that

I remembered

Why we

Are who

We are

To one

Another and

Simply don’t

Belong to

Anyone else

And there

Was a

Woman that

Lost what

She remembered

And it

Brought me

Great sorrow

To remember

What I

Did it’s

In these

Moments that

I remember

You and

The joy

You brought

Like wine

And cheese

Upon which

We dine