I find it
startling
How much I hold onto
The poem you wrote for me.

A few typed words,
now on a tattered sheet of paper
(isn’t that just how we are—
tattered?).
Maybe it’s because all you feed me now
is a few cold looks,
a half dozen half-smiles.
But in this flimsy, poetic dénouement,
I have tangible words &
evidence of your unexpressed perception.

I hold onto your poem
  (my poem)
And won’t
         (can’t)
    let you go.

I pray that the pencil smudges from
your first draft to me
still linger on your fingertips.
May they cause you to think of me
and write me again.
Whispered tremors on wavering pages.

I pray that I’m not the only one who
loves to long for what we could have been;
the scent of your skin on mine.
May those pinings sing you a lullaby
as your window lets in that cold, cold draft.
Eyelids heavy and body aching.

I pray

You write.