You told me you loved words
and so I started writing you love poems,
passionately concealing them
in between sheets of books.
I started lending you pages
of myself, hiding within each signature
giggling, imagining your face
once you stumble upon my words,
finding them nestled within yours.
But maybe I misunderstood,
because you never came by
to browse through Aquinas
or Ahumada or Alvarez.
You never sought to re-read
Lopez or Lewis--those whose
words you said you've kept
lovingly locked within.
I wouldn't have waited for so long
if I had known that you've already
loaned your words and settled yourself
in between someone else's sheets.
—S.C., October 18, 2015