Who?

This was supposed to be a poem for me.
At least, it was when I started.

Maybe it's a little ironic
to start with how it wasn't supposed to be started
and tell you anyway. 

You've always had a fascinating
way of turning me on my head. 

I thought I knew what I was doing. 
I thought I understood 
leaving and living 
and what makes me human 
and how to feel infinite 
or happy 
or whatever the word is. 

Ectsasy? Elation?
Maybe. 

I am so much more than I thought. 
You have persuaded me into noticing 
and once I start I can't stop.

It's like meeting an old friend 
that has been gone for ages 
and suddenly they're everywhere:
in the same parking lot;
searching for the same book in the same library;
opening the silent door of consciousness in my sleep. 

And this is just the start.
This is just the title page
in the beginning of a book. 
This is just the first step.
My first step. 

I'm learning that "empty" 
wasn't always the definition of me 
And you weren't always so outgoing. 

I hope you know how much I care
and I hope I know how to tell you
if you don't. 

As long as you're in my poem 
I don't care who it's for.