And you told me your story without meaning to. 

It was begging to be told and you'd buried it long enough. 

Love, you can't always chop down what is truth when it has roots. 

The world simply exists without meaning to and will always break through weak strings that foolishly aspire to tie it down. 

Because it is. It just is. And what is, is meant to be known. 

Love, I listened to your story with eyes like a river. A river running fast and deep for the air that sings to it through the day and through the night. 

See my face, please. Study it, memorize it. 

Because this is the face of me seeing you, hearing you, knowing you. 

Because you are. You just are.

And what is, is meant to be known.