Sometimes, on evenings such as this, I think of the undefined that is you. You, who make me melt in the honey-flavoured sunshines so that I turn into something as abstract and immeasurable as you are. Like poetry. Or love. Or summer. Or the nothingness that fills my heart on days when there is nothing but an existence, a unique existence, content in existing. 
I know you only as much as I know me. Yet, you belittle me. Like that younger version of me that used too much of the words 'love' and 'change' and 'beauty'. Tell her she is missed. That she still manages, in all her confusion and uncertainty and ill-decisions and failures, to inspire an awe. That she stirs the stillness in me and reminds me that there is nothing like past or future. And so, I brought you to this moment. To see how I am still trying, still wondering, still creating word-weaves to keep us warm when winter comes. Will you look for me then? Outside of the comfort of your winter afternoon sun and the softness of the cream-heart on your coffee? Will you seek me out if I hide behind the heap of the pebbles I am busy collecting throughout spring? Will you spread some of your sunshine on my bread while we talk of sweet mundanity?
And I will tell you how, sometimes, in meaningless poetry and untuned instruments, I have heard the rattle of our souls brushing past the meaning-and form-obsessed mess of this world. In imperfection, I have found our song. An imperfect song of formless submission. Intimate. Free.