I can't give you handfuls of dollar bills,
crip and new and ready to be spent,
only stacks of sentences, flowing together like
the melody of a piano.
All I can give are my thoughts
that stain the paper, splotches of blue
and black, straight lines and curves.
Give me your heart,
and I'll give you a poem,
a sonnet,
a love song.
I'll link my hand with yours around a pen
and write our words as one,
a harmony of both of us,
things we both wish we could give the other,
when all we have are words,
cheap as a sheet of lined paper.