I message the girl I love
     "I miss writing poetry"
I miss the way syllables
     and sounds orient themselves
A line dance I haven't done
    in years, but know the steps
A sleeper agent to the way
    that used to be the only way
Back when my feelings were opaque
    and dusty, indiscernible
Before I knew what anger was
    without heat and fear
    and raised voices
Before I knew safety as something
    permanent, more tangible
    than ghosts
Once, poetry was my first language
    prose second, RP third,
A way to communicate without speech
    without uhms and uhs
Before I learned to ******* my way
    through public speaking
Poetry
    A line and feeling, a dance
    Syllabic sign language
I message the woman I love
    "I miss writing poetry"
Pick up a pen
    and write.