They say that they do not understand the words that flow out of me. They can not get a grip on the phrases filling the empty sheets. They have given up the effort on trying, given up the effort to stay with me, where you are still holding on and still want to see me.
You ask me to narrate more to you, explaining more to you, revealing more to you. Trying to fill in the last numbers on my equation.
But for all I know, for all the letters, words and images I keep sending to you,  you seem to be having a better understanding of my words than I do of my own.