When I miss you,
I read the poetry you send me.

I start by running
my tongue through the words,
in the space between the letters,
making sure to hold each sentence
between my teeth to
not waste a single drop of flavor.

I then take each page and
hang it up to dry,
so the words don’t bleed off
when I’m done tasting them.
I wring out each tear and
replace them with gentle touch,
to preserve your craft for
years to come.

Once dry it is easy to
pull the stanzas from the clothesline,
and to burrow under each line,
laying my head on the period
and finding warmth in the
way you tell me
you love me.

Your words sketch a map and
X marks the treasure
I find in us.

It is easy to reach out my hand
and find yours in the darkness,
when your poetry is there to
guide the way.