Have you
ever written
poetry
so
persnal?

It's like a tattoo
on
your skin?

But an open
secret

To the one
you let it
read?

Hoping they catch on
To the
real poetry
written in
between?

To the
tear drops that aren't on
the page

Because you held them
in

To the sweat on the
palms of your
hands
from
the pen
that kept dripping
ink?

And as the
beauty fades away
and they become

just words
on a page

they look back at you
and you at they

and for a second
you can see

just passed
their worried eyes
and their
frayed jeans

( or their trembling lips)

that they know
exactly

what it means.