I will tell you a little story
About mountaintops,
And how despite being

Six-foot
Nothing
I have always had a fear of
Heights, and rollercoasters,
And falling.

Somewhere in here
Is a love poem.

Good timing too.

I was about to talk
About how my greatest fear
Is not the crash,
The tightly knit crunch
Of rock on
Shattered bone,

But rather
The limbo that hangs between
You, and inevitable
Ground
Like a poorly written apology.

One you could never
Find yourself
Reciting
Out loud

For fear
Of having your voice catch
Just as
You hit

The earth.

You ask me
To write poetry
And I will tell you
To draw a face.
Any face.

Because the poetry
Is in your lips
Believe me
I've tried
To run away from it
But you,
There you are.

And when you
Ask me
To write poetry
I will ask you to sing
Because the poetry
Is in your voice

And believe me
I've tried to stop hearing it
But you,
There you are.

When you ask me
How to write poetry
I will tell you
To draw a wall.

Because this barrier of words
Is the only form
Of my love thin enough
To escape the crevices
Of your glance.

You are poetry
My dear.

The preservation of
A voice brushed away
And left to the
Winds of time.