"I write poetry," I whispered with shy reluctance.
His eyebrows raised, delivering an expression
I guessed was subtle fascination.
"Well, kind of," I blurted out
In a futile attempt to retract my
Regrettable confession.
I was too late.
He was spellbound by my previous sentence,
And staring at me with intruding eyes.
I felt the horrible burning of a spotlight
And I knew precisely what he would say next.
"Will you write me one?" he implored, as predicted.
A hypnotizing grin spread delicately
Across his beautiful face
And I became scared that his smile
Was illusive enough to rip
The unwritten poems from my mouth.
I replied, "maybe."
Because maybes are a safe zone,
A way to lie without lying.
I knew I wasn't going to write him a poem.
And it wasn't because he didn't make me feel anything.
In fact, he made me feel all the right things.
But, I am unpracticed in writing about joy.
My poems are simply legible forms of my wounds.
For it's always misery that opens my notebook,
Loneliness that inks my pen,
And pain that inspires my language.
But, what I've come to learn in loving him
Is that poetry can be wordless.
It exists in the invisible masterpieces
I paint on his back while he sleeps,
And in the subtle space between
His lips and mine before they meet.
It exists in the gentle touches,
the stolen gazes,
the silent I love yous.
And so, although I'll never write it in ink.
For him, a thousand wordless love poems have been written.
