Albert K. Ashes-Bury Takes His Sweet Time

If I were a better man, I wouldn’t be
writing this, telling you
instead
that I have not known love
to exist and grow like this, that I never
knew what love could be, how it felt,
what it always singularly was; and I would
be telling you—selfishly, indeed—not
that I love you—because of course
I do—but
that you made me feel loved, seen, safe,
and so I now feel loved (I’d say it
over and over) even
whilst knowing
words, aren’t always meaningful, it being
wasted, that word (love), at times; but
I’d use it fine
and fully with you, as I feel
fine and full now, at times, mostly
when I think of you, mostly since I’ve known
you, whilst not truly knowing
where you came from (not here), what you
are, how this
all works, yet still knowing
you have come and it came, and it
works, whilst realising
I never knew it before, I never knew it
was this
in this capacity; and now, I just
feel it; and of course, I am
a better man for this, and due
to you; but, if only
I told you—if I only
you could read this.