there are days when he writes like his soul is afire his hot ink scorches my pages angry, burning his careful print slurs to indecisive cursive he writes too quickly and does not revise— those are the days he writes essays addressed to important men who will never answer i do not quite understand there are days when he writes like languid honey and his sweet words glide over me slow, deliberate i think of an autumn i do not know his pensive smile makes my pages flutter— those are the days he writes songs he hums off key and his rhymes are off meter yet his lyrics press into my pages and tattoo upon my leather skins there are nights when he writes like a gypsy has captured his heart his lines wander to a place i cannot follow whimsical, impulsive his letters loop, and his eyes hold a gaze i know is not for me— those are the nights he writes poetry he counts his syllables, loops his letters and writes a name a name i wish were mine
poetry 19