I thought to write him a love poem,
Paper always lasts longer than a kiss.
But the worth of it, I fear,

is far less.
Paper, with age, breaks down to dirt and dust
Its constitution no more stoic
Than a white moth’s wing.
It is flimsy,
Like a sick girl’s heart,
And will flutter away if hit
With something soft,
A breath of wind

or a lover’s sigh.
Even teardrops could wear it thin
If enough fell,
In the same place.
Could paper truly capture the meaning?
The white hot shock, blazing like diamonds
The moment of heat in the connection

of his lips to mine
An apple sweet blink out of time
When two hearts race up,
As one leaping percussion.
To catch such a feeling,
In the cool simplicity of black and white lines
Would be a difficult thing,

But I could do it.
Yet if, instead of a smile,
And a goodbye kiss
I merely turned and pressed this paper to his hands
He would take it, delicately,

like a bouquet of dried flowers
But I know he wouldn’t read it.