I wish I had your gentle touch with words. Your poems rise out of you like mist every time you smile. I work with a hammer and chisel and I often tear off fragments of my flesh. You are so young. You must have lived many more lives than I. I wish I knew you better. I don’t know how to be gentle. I dream I am a beast with brutal hands trying to touch your hair, crushing the flowers I would bring you in my concrete fingers. I have been dead for years. I am just now beginning my life with this poem to you.