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The Boy Who Held Back the Sea

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It’s been a long time.
Notebook pages, long since empty, shiver,
and yearn for that shawl of words to pull around and hide in.
It used to be
that I’d try to stop the words,
drinking only the sweet, sweet trickle
which, around a handkerchiefed fingertip,
seeped from the dike.
But you caulked the space,
holding back the torrent so my hands
were free to touch you.
And blue lined paper sits empty,
lonelier than I’d be without you.
I can’t write poetry when I’m happy.





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