I am in love with a girl.
And she smells like Sunday.

I don't know if you realize it,
But you're climbing out of the pit.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

I wrote your name
on a piece of paper
traced all the letters
and spelled all the pain
I kept buried deep within.

Perhaps I must send you
a letter today
and be it a reminder
of how cupid once
pulled an arrow
for you and me

ten years ago

on a sunny
Valentine's day.