"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.