I stopped writing-
a poet at a loss for words.

You did this to me.
Yes, you, reading this.
Your beauty left me awestruck
with no relief.
Please...
Please you must believe
how unashamedly I've fallen abrupt
into the snares of love.
I haven't fallen nearly as graceful
as your features fair when you
tilt your head to the side.
My love is just as intense though,
as your focused eyes upon the words I write.

It is true,
from the first time your gaze
stumbled
on my humble scribblings of rhyme,
of times gone by,
my heart has swelled and shivered,
knowing that I have your attention.
But then I don't really have it,
do I?
You don't really see me,
watching you from behind the text.

My love, forgive me.
I make such abrasive claims
of love and loyalty,
but they fall flat, you see-
like the screen you read my words from (I clench the taut strings of my heart as I look up at your illuminated face).
I'm stuck here and that
is what tortures my soul, already sore.

You can never be mine
while I'm trapped in between
these lines,
these rhymes.

I'm trying to find a way out.
Until I do,
just know this:
Everything I write is for you-
so I can see you once more.
I don't know how,
but I will find a way out.

I love the way you smile
when my poems have a happy end.
Then I just feel so awful when
I make you cry because my poems soured
like my bitter heart that hates its apparent destiny.

I'm stuck here.
But the hope of seeing your face again,
returning to read my latest work,
that is what keeps me going without fear
until the end.

I'll find a way out
and then you'll see me for real.
The poet trapped in the book,
waiting for you to look and see
between the lines.
You'll see me-
the poet my beloved reader has, and will
set free.