Dear You,*

Your eyes hold the
stanzas of a late-night guilty pleasure.

The voice of you wrenches words
and inaugurates ink
to blue-lined paper.  

The smell of Sunday mornings
on the sheets elicits
pages of verses
I myself
could not behold alone.  

The imperfections of an unsound
life upon your body
make for melodic rhythms.

The curve of your
existence can stab
letters from a desolated mind
I call my own.

The refrain of life
hanging on your heart
reverberates ink stains
onto porcelain
skin
and
I must admit,
I think you’re in love with a writer.

*Sincerely,
Me