I wish he would write his poems about me
and wrap me up in the warmth of his words
as if his arms could reach out from the ink of the page
and caress a tear away as it begins to
roll down my cheek.

I wish he would write his poems about me
and rip them up and crush them into small knots
of frustration as he scrawled his next draft
that he hopes will suffice in taking my heart.


I wish he would write his poems about me
and about the mountains, and miles of sapphire waters lapping the
shores we could one day travel and climb as we
walked along hand in hand.

I want his thoughts to smother me.
I want to drown in a pool of tears
he would weep as he whispered my name,
or dreamed of a day when he reached down into a well
and examined all the coins I had cast to the depths.