Dear Reader (the actual)

Dear Reader,
Something so fresh is happening, I just met my heart.
I would insert a poem here about my heart here but I don't want to give it away.
I would use words such as whole and the well, I would also use the word bath so as not to repeat myself and to suprise you but I don't feel like bridging the gap for you dear reader, I don't feel like writing a metaphor to stun you, to stun it, to make it into that otherness. I always wrote in metaphor -- if I could animate something mundane it would sparkle in a new height, I would take some lurking quality and spin it, taunt it into something new. Right now I have no need for this is so perfect and endearing and surrounding that I choose not to make it unusual while accessible. I don't feel like making devicive line-breaks to keep you on your toes. How could I? I feel so steady. I am afraid to name this dear reader or exctract where I am, and I want to keep this. I am not playing.
(I have joy right here. In me a huge vault. There is a new ceiling in my heart.
What is this big room? all the little flecks have dropped. something so entirely me. I don't know how this all fits.)