Mother

I have written you a letter though I don't know who you are.
You, the light-emitting beautiful and fragile one
etched in my mind though seldom visited.
I, loving, overbearing; I don't even know who you are.
It is imperfection with perfection that I await with anticipation.
Driven into my chest rides your innocent thought
I don't even know who you are.
But now, worry wanes in my nervous beating heart
for the strive of the moment as come to me this hour.
You, You told me you liked me for me.
And you, you believe in all the things I see.
You
I know who you are.