I show Chelsea a poem I wrote.
A young woman standing by a blue sea stretching out forever.
Her man sailed away to a war, and she watches the sea, waiting for him.
She grows old, waiting for him
I imagined the young woman’s long golden hair.
I imagined the young woman’s simple blue dress.
I imagined the sadness in her clear blue eyes, always watching the horizon.
Then I wrote it all down.
Chelsea reads the poem, and she sees all these things.
But the golden hair she sees, and the simple blue dress, and sorrowful eyes
Are all made by her imagination in her own way.
She doesn’t see what I saw.
I show Chelsea the poem, and we share something,
Intimate vision, a piece of my heart, a shard of my inner eye
And the emotions of the broken and betraying world I find.
But either of the visions in our minds, is ours alone.