You are my favorite poem to write
And that’s the oldest metaphor in the book
But I could write you into the sheets and always find more ink under your nails
I am but words
And when you finally scoop the script from my spine
And watch the way it falls into the form of your favorite words
"Let’s go on an adventure together"
And I could write this poem from a brown river in southern Vietnam
Or from the highest bar in the world on the 118th floor
And all I really care to do is get home and tell you about it
The only time I’m glad that you’re not here is when I know that I still get to burst at the seams with more to say to you
And that means we won’t run out of conversation
I’m making my pockets into gopher cheeks
For all the novels I can’t wait to write for you
I’m not trying to tell you I love you
I just needed to say
That I’m sitting in front of smoke and dirt and fumes and accident prone motorbikes and you are still the dress hanging in the window
And I could dream about having you forever.
What would you have if you took all the writing you ever scratched out or thought was bad and put it together?