Social Media and Literary Dalliance

Words.
Those damned words.
They pour through me like
grains of sand
from the womb of the writers mind
to the readers heart…
and the hourglass
is turned again.
Another hour passes
With the passing hand.
Wee hours spent in the safe place
Of our own unconsciousness
But then I read, you write
to a stranger at night
and linger somewhere
along the spectrum of danger
of voyeur to vicarious empath.
I’m no deviant,
but there is something safe,
serenely satisfying,
in creative written exchanges
of anonymity between we sages.
We learn to hold so deeply
that people are how we imagine them to be,
that we find anything beyond that futility.
It’s absurd to share a soliloquy
but I just did.