I save up the best ideas for a poem
in a bank,
trading thoughts like currency,
hoarding the best ones
for birthdays and
rainy days.

i count the amount of effort
each one will take
with two interests -
one being the love i invest in you,
and
the other being the joy
of your reaction
that i get back.

i keep thinking that one day
i ought to save up my words
and my thoughts
to string them together like a necklace
not of pearl, but of precious things -
memories, stolen smiles, lost glances.
i try to save my poetry for you,
only to end up poor at the end of the day.

oh but how not to feel like a pauper when i lavish my last words on you?