Eventually, I will function at a level I will be happy with. I just might need some help getting there.

Written last February.

I write you poems in sticky notes on my computer's desktop
hoping that some day,
I will have the courage to turn them into paper.
I draw pictures of you in my head
that suffer the same fate as my poetry
because they will never look quite the way I want them to
and I won't be able to draw the contours that i draw my hand across,
the line of your jaw will never be quite right
and i cannot put you in soft focus the way i want to,
the way you look when you lie only three inches from my face.
And though I know we've fallen in love
I cannot say I love you until I fall just a little bit deeper
Not until I'm certain that I won't spook you into throwing me off your back
Because I won't watch your dust clouds dance away from me
as I lie flat in the dirt.
So I cannot write you a love poem
Not with words,
So I try to write it in kisses upon your back
hoping that somewhere you'll understand my metaphor
and maybe compose a verse or two on my body
In words that I can understand.
I'm not asking for much, no sonnets or pantoums for this artist
I'll be happy with only a haiku written in the space between my fingers or where your lips pause on my forehead,
passing me a dream through skin and bone that I can save for another night,
Fall asleep in my own bed, alone but for my blankets,
listening to the couple in the apartment above scream at each other in muffled comic book speech bubbles that drip with spite,
and instead of thinking that it's my parents replaying out their drama above my head,
I'll fall asleep all the faster because I know you're waiting in my head,
with a kiss in your hand and a poem on your lips.