The poems come out of your eyes
and not your mouth,
as you write sweet lines to me
across the room;
our eyes lock
and you tell me
you are longing to know
what my voice sounds like.
what my hand may be like
locked in yours
and what my skin may feel like
under your finger tips.

As your poetry is yelling at me
from across the room
I wonder what your finger tips may taste like,
the chewed off nails
and the salty-sweet skin.
I wonder what your hair would feel like
if I ran my fingers through.
What the muscles on your neck and shoulders would feel like
being rubbed and massaged
with in the palms of my hands.
I wonder what your neck would taste like
if I were to gently kiss and lightly lap it.


Your poetry
comes out of your eyes
as you look at me
from across the room.
and then I see you pull out your notebook,
with scribbles and gibberish galore
as you write with quick
and tightly flexed arms
and I wonder
what your eyes might have to say
to the paper beneath your pen.

The words you write
for only your paper to see-
it should be shared
and I implore you:
will you share it with me?

And I sit and wonder
if I am understanding your language
or am I just a foreigner
to the country of your head?