a poem of us

a poem of us
could have no reader.
i could write it down,
let the words flow over my skin--
good morning sweetheart, i love
lamp, snoopy is mine, sing me
a song, you never tell me
when you miss me, should we
shake on it--
i could swish them around with soap,
scratch them into my scalp,
let them wash and whisper under my fingernails,
or pour them on my face,
but a poem of us
could have no reader.
for she would let those same words flow over and
under her skin;
she would enter our mess of tangled
limbs and get lost in our labyrinth
of mixed feelings.
she would finish reading it--
i can just see her--sitting sad and
confused at the blurred jumble of text
before her inviting
her into bed with strangers
unsure of whether or not they are strangers to
each other after what seems like a lifetime
of shared words and limbs and some sad
folk songs before
sleeping. so a poem
of us wouldn't really be a poem at all,
it would sit among a stack of unsent letters
filling dusty shoeboxes of old birthday cards
and souvenirs from broken hearts
under my bed.

dls