Late last year, I dreamt that I was in your house. Not quite like the one you have now, it was larger with more rooms. Rooms I've never been in. I walked into a big, cluttered study. There were papers and photographs on the floor and pinned to the walls. Everywhere. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't read the writing. It was indecipherable and the photos stained, old, and unrecognizable. I wanted to understand who you are and yet this told me nothing more.

I still wonder who you are and sometimes think that my wanting to know so much did the harm. I wanted to read you like a book and you would only let me peek because you were cautious. I wanted poetry and a juicy story. I was impatient and wanted to rush to reach the climax of the story. You snapped the book shut and I now do not want to know the end. Not yet.