Not mine. But hers.
I can read longing.
It is a dialect I have spoken
not too long ago. She is liquid.
Fluidity coursing through ink to paper.
My mind is damp from searching
words that are able. To distinguish
the soul that is you. My hands tremble in envy.
Anxiety has gripped me. As if I could swoon
you over with rhyme and meter.
Your imagery pulsing in stanzas.
My pieces cannot satiate
the art of your being. Impressions of qualities
I have grown fond of leave my paragraphs
in disarray. When all this is over,
I hope to find you in my writing.