I whistle when I blow on my tea
and drink cofee when I can't go to sleep.

I call and leave you messages:
that make me feel like I'm trying too hard,
(or not enough, or like I don't know how,
because I'm not sure what I want)
because I forget what I want to say
when I think about:

your smile
(what makes you smile?)

your blue eyes
(I'm so sick of hiding behind mine,
and I'm ready to see my reflection
and your reflection, in the same frame.
In nothing,[we say nothing], because it means nothing:
unless we want it to.)

your shaking hands
("I know I can do this."
"I know you can do this.")

your silence
(both bathing, both nervous,
both nothing. Because I can't speak for you.
I have trouble speaking to you.)


how's this [?] for,
I'm here.
I don't understand, but I want to.
I'm sorry.

- - - - - - - - - - - -
I haven't been myself for a long time,
but
I'm changing
and
my feelings are
too.

you've been in my dreams for longer than I'd like to admit
[I would if you asked me].
I'm ready to spill some secrets of my own
[because secrets have never been my strong point,
but honesty has, and that's what you deserve].

- - - - - - -
across the table conversation:
"it doesn't matter how many people read your poetry..."
                     "as long as it's written."

the question game: the life game: the experience: the answers.

after thoughts:
'but does it matter if the person you wrote it for
does?"