Could you read?
Not the lines—
but what’s within,
what’s between the crooked letters?

Could you read?
My palm—does it spell your name whole,
or must I let the blood spill through the scars?

Could you read?
Not lines, not words,
but the ones that escape through parted lips,
the ones resting in my eyes, waiting?

Maybe it’s not about could you.
Maybe it’s would you?

Would you read—
the never-ending path I’ve written on parchment?
Would you take that path,
even if the potholes consume it?

Would you walk it,
even as the muscle aches?
Or would you break
before the loss?

Would you read?
Could you read?
Or…
maybe I should ask
Could I even write?