With no Tom Hanks to bring you home
A lover, not a fighter, on the front line with a poem
Trying to write yourself a rifle
Maybe sharpen up a stone
To fight the tanks and drones
Of you being alone*
Writing does help, I guess.
But what matters more
Is when she tells you
She's actually reading it.

But I think if she was,
I'd be embarrassed.
Who cares.

Everyone can read me like a book anyways.
My emotions are out there, and I don't hide how I feel for others.
And I'm good at waiting, masterful, even.
Maybe one day I can write myself into my own dream,
One we can share in together.
But until then,
My ink is my protection.