I'm trying not to write poetry
for him
but I can't help the way my words fall,
sometimes. A strong wind shoving me out
to sea.
It's always the sea.
I'm trying not to write poetry
for him
but laying in the warmth of
a shared bed
I can still feel his thumb in my fingers
as I try to hold on
to keep him from falling off the edge
of a peaceful morning into a workday.
I'm trying not to write poetry
for him
I imagine him reading everything I've ever written.
I blush a little, at the thought.
He shares my bed, yet
he does not share my poetry
the way beautiful strangers do.
I keep trying not to write poetry,
for him.
I don't want to give too much of myself
away but
I've never been one to do things
halfheartedly and he keeps drawing me in
real close
close enough to feel his heartbeat.
Close enough to be warm.