I love the way that you can still always manage to write perfect circles
around me.

My words feel so small. Insignificant. When I want to write you back.
Falling short out of my lips. Hanging disappointingly in the air.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe if I shout it
like I want to. Maybe if I make a declaration-
my words can stand next to yours.

I feel the same way.

I want your answers. I want your intimate details. I want to trace your skin over, and over. I want to feel the curve of your spine
and the curve of your lips
and your fingers as they curve around mine.

I want to savor the feeling
of words pressed against you. Hot, lost, unobtainable desire.
My greatest vice is not ink on paper.
It's the canvass of your soul and skin.

That's what I've always loved about you. Poetry in motion.
Definitely a unique love. It is not like loving a poet. It's loving: living,
breathing, words. It's knowing them by heart. The way you dance through vibrations cast in the air. The way I know that you are a poem all yourself. The closest thing to religion I've ever felt. Reading you- cover to cover. Discovering your words.

Maybe that's the most disappointing part. I'm lying.
I haven't read you cover to cover. I know I barely got past the introduction. There's something deeper within you that I crave to know.
Desperately.
Something that I'm afraid I'll never know. The best thing I've ever read. Left unfinished.

I guess I don't deserve to know something so wonderful. Maybe that's the limitations of an earthly body. Where I don't get to know you because I was lost- a victim of distance and a slave to circumstance. Taken by life. Taken by being busy. Taken away without really understanding why.

I'd give anything to sit down intimately with you
and devote all of my time
savoring all of your words,
counting all your pages,
loving each one,
until I could close the spine,
only to turn you over,
and start all over again.