When I write about somebody,
making a statement about the experience,
I'm also asking a question:

Do I dare to share my half of that time with you,
with you?

Nights that meant nothing to you were so different on my end.
Like Dracula's little play thing Lucy it only took one bite
and I was yours.

Doomed to wake in the middle of the night and dream of your fangs.
Because even though it was new, and dangerous, and little bit scary
it was familiar, and oh so very good.

But that's just it, was it new and good, and scary for you?
Or was I just another late night snack?
Something to fill you up and keep you going?

If you're reading this here it won't mean anything to you,
just another poem in an endless list about her, she, and you.

But what if I gave it context, proper nouns,
wrote it down on paper with a fancy pen
and slipped it into your mailbox like a high school kid
too afraid to tell you to your face
but too hypnotized by bite marks on my neck to stop.

Would it mean something then?
Because there are marks on your neck too,
and I can still choose to drink.

Do you remember the summer,
when that Brown dusty path
lead into that forgotten wood?
Where the Green seemed so alive
it threatened to swallow you whole?
Where the Red of the flowers seemed so real
the entire day

felt like a dream?

Do you remember the flower
standing watch at the edge of the trees?
It stood in Violet defiance of all around
and you understood, and were humble.

Do you remember the sky,
that for the first time in so long
reminded you that it was Blue?
When the sun shined down
so White and pure you thought
it might just wash you away.

Do you remember the leaf,
hidden in the shadow of the canopy?
That reminded you of how even here
death's Black hand remains but
even it can have a peace about it.

Do you remember the sunflower
that just woke up to greet the world?
As it stretched its Yellow
as far as it dared
just so it could speak to you.

Do you remember the dragonfly,
that flew like everything was up to him?
The way he zipped to and fro
and then fro an to.
So quick you saw only Orange
as he blurred himself to your eyes.

Do you remember the cool
as you laid down to nap in the grass?
The Pink on your toes seemed to fit
so well amoung the wildflowers.
Where you slept for only moments
but felt refreshed like never before.

Do you remember the summer,
when that Brown dusty path
lead into that forgotten wood?
Where the Green seemed so alive
it threatened to swallow you whole?
Where the Red of the flowers seemed so real
the entire day

felt like a dream?

I could never be a poet
and also be in love.

Because love is an intimate thing.
Its two palms pressed together, ten fingers wrapped around
as we walk down an old dirt road
when the moon is gone and the stars are hidden
but I'm still so sure you can see me smile from one ear to the other.
My right hand so ready to cut itself off because it cannot be the left.

Love is when I wake disapointed because I'm alone
and then realize you've only rolled to the other side
so in one super slick motion that would leave you believing
I'm at least one quarter ninja
I move right next to you, slipping my arm into the
space underneath your neck
so I will never have to move to wake it back up
and as I'm lying there drifting off to sleep I force myself
back to reality
and kiss you softly on the shoulder
because there will come a time where I will go to sleep and not have just kissed you
but there isn't one reason in the world why that has to be now.

Love is when I'm trying to play, trying to think,
trying to teach, trying to write
and all that comes to mind are images of you,
your eyes, your smile, your hair,
that skirt you love to wear that i've seen a thousand times
and every time I have to say how good it looks because
blue is so absolutely your color.

I could never be a poet
and be in love
because love is
all those moments, thoughts, memories, and images
that are so endlessly intimate
and all I can do is spout them off
to a room full of strangers.