"I’ve survived a lot of things, and I’ll probably survive this."


You’re the poem
always on the fringes of my mind.
Your hands and hair and mouth.
You’re the words
on the tip of my tongue,
the edge of my kiss.
My lips are patiently waiting.

You’re the poem that whispers
late at night and early in the morning,
the words in my head as I read my emails and drink my coffee.
You’re the promise I make on the cliff of the clouds.

You’re the poem that I’ve been waiting for,
but I forgot how to turn beauty into poetry a long time ago.
You’re the words I need to say,
but my heart has stitches
and my body trembles
and it’s hard to hold a pen.

You’re the poem I want to write,
but I don’t know how to turn
into some scribbles of a pen.