I wanna shoot the Guru a link to something that I penned but I hope that he is just following me all over the internet, in the shadows, eating my words on his lunch breaks and is finished reading what I would have sent anyway, somewhere getting high, a lil’ proud that he used to fuck a dope ass, big booty, smart, brown girl that he still believes ( after all the crazy and all the fiction and all the skulls) is a talented writer and therefore by association culturally and cosmically, coupled with his experience of me and connection with me, upgrades his existence in like ten tangibly calculable ways.
I don’t have to send him shit. I hope. He feels me. Still. I hope.
He knows. I hope.
Matter of fact, he knew. I hope.
So he’s checking. I bet.
And approving of my skill and ultimately his decision, to let me go and let me grow.