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To Inquiring Minds,

A man in a tuxedo bending down on one knee.

A child in the back seat of the car, antsy to arrive.

A couple on a therapist's couch, not knowing where

to go from here.

I wrap around all of the words they prepare to say.

The melody of their sentences lift with my presence,

But I know I will only ever feel like a weight.

I am never used unless there is uncertainty.

The butterflies released with me as we bask in the waiting

Will never be a comfort.

Oh how I long to exist with security.

If only I could hold them, curl my body around

their fears and have my dot calm their worries.

And while I accept that it is not my role,

I must ask you, dear writers,

Will you resent me with the stroke of your pen?

Interrogatively,

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