you love him
urgently,
scrapingly,
scrabblingly now

the way his back bends
when he leans over his desk,
how he buries his hands
in a mess of untamed hair
when he has nothing to say.

you want to love
the things he loves and inhabit his mind,
curled in some dark corner away from the rain,
and you would warm it up;
you would make it a home

to unfurl the trappings
of insecurity you find there,
project them onto everyone else
& watch him as a booming
extrovert
before retracting the feelers
and bringing him back to himself.

you've written your
34th love poem of the day
for someone
whom you are not quite sure
exists