Dearest Wanda

How crazy is it that I do not know your name, nor do I have the heart to mispronounce it pieces of you that I have read, 
and I know you so deeply beyond comprehension,  
a woman, being, that live ages before I  
and somehow your life is not so dissimilar from mine. 

How prideful and jubilant of us to write down our thoughts our delayered core,  
our truest of experiences that we dare not utter to another, a man,  
that could never understand.  
Yet here I am peering into your life, caressing the edges of the page  
and bringing my pale cheek to the print so I may be transmuted  
into the gallery of your life.  

How demanding of me, how ritualistic we can be for I swish and chew through  
your words ones you thought would be meaningless, or at least  
words that would burrow themselves and be food for worms,  
never to see the light of day.  
As I began to bury myself and curl deeper into the cold earth,  
I cut myself on the ends of your rough pages; how miraculous  
haunting it is that I find your words your essence your bones that you buried yourself.  

Dearest Wanda, you are not alone, not crazed, not too much,  
as I read strips of your life and I shudder at the absence of time the lack of space  
between you I, you hunched over me,  
imposing into the mind of those of us who take time to write useless musings.