To every writer

                                           -a poem dedicated to you

If the mind wishes to be made out of itself,
what would you do if you could find out?
Would you dare go on, say, you found yourself here, 
slumped over a page in the dim light of an age old cafe where you write
in the story of a child, some unrequited love or maybe about the pretty thing wafting by your mug before the coffee turns cold?

Know this; there is only us and a thought in between the pen
before the message does reach someone elses' heart.
There is only you and I, which speak the language of words
So tell me, is it in the echoing laughter, the people by the streets,
making residence of the space?

I suppose that there is only that, alone, with our thoughts
as we're thinking that we know
or wish to know, the meaning of a home
even now as we write; do we say it is for us? 
                                                                        go see for yourself.