So many instances
I fight the urge
I bite my tongue, my
lips, the words that
threaten to
spill out if I'm not too
careful, if I'm not
paying
attention.
I love you, I say.
I mean come here.
My heart beat quickens,
pulse erratic.
I love you, I say.
I mean don't go.
I love you, I say.
I mean, please be different.
I love you, I say.
I mean, I need you to
tell me again the
words you whispered so
that I am not convinced it's
in my head.
I love you, I say
never out loud.
Each draft my heart writes I will
toss
in the garbage because the
next time I say I
love you,
I don't want to mean I
hope you don't go.
The next time I say I
love you,
I want to mean it.