Dear Rumi,

I'll carry you on the subway-
a flimsy collection of words
in my back pocket.
I'll stare at you aimlessly
as you speak of shamas
and true love.
You are often much
greater company than
the people i see as i ride
the silent trains,
the silent passages ways
to unknown destinations
and places.
Thousands of bodies,
jostling here and there,
unaware of the mass
of hearts beating in
unison around them.
They don't smile,
so I stop looking for answers
in their tired eyes.
As of late I keep to myself,
grip the railing and
look down or into the distance,
making eyes with no one but
my reflection in the dirty door mirror.

Today you confirmed the existence of soul mates,
tickled my ears with whispers
I have yet to understand.

Who is your God, Rumi?

I try to walk down West Fourth
with a bounce in my step,
as if i have just come from
a rendezvous with destiny.
I want you to tell me your stories again.
Slower, more carefully.
Don't go without me. 
I'll finger the pages until they
are worn and and dirty,
I'll ride the subway
to a hundred and sixteenth
street and back.