Write me a poem,
one that changes every time you read it.
Write me a poem,
but let's never talk about it.

Because to write me a poem,
is to speak to me.
To read your poem,
is for me to listen.
To understand your poem,
is to love you.

But we can never speak about your poem.
Because to speak about your poem,
is to destroy it.

His hands are warm
I do not wonder who they have touched before
I will not wonder who they will touch after
He touches me
In ways hands can't feel
And eyes can't see

I remember your eyes, those long eyelashes, the bright blue staring back at me
But I've forgotten the look of them gazing at me

I remember the curve of your mouth, your soft full lips, the way they puckered out
But I've forgotten the feeling of kissing you

I remember your hands, big and rough from those hours at the gym
But I've forgotten how they feel in my own hands

I remember your long hair, tugging on it even though I knew you hated it
But I've forgotten the smell of it after you showered

I remember you pulling me close in the night, wrapping your arm tight around my waist
But I've forgotten the warmth from your body

I remember you said you loved me, you said it every time you left
But I've forgotten what it's like to love you because you forgot first

I warned you, son.
"Don't break her heart."
Now you think about that while I rip you apart.

I don't know what it is you seek,
but my sister is out of your league.
Failed to see how lucky you were.
Did not heed my warning when you texted her

What kind of ***** breaks up via texting?
The same little ***** that thinks bussing is flexing.
She'll move onto better, just for a toy.
She won't wait long for a mere busboy.

I could go on forever about things that you lack.
Like, interest, money, a life, a six-pack.
You'll never be good enough for my little sister,
but I hope she's moved on when you realize you've missed her.