I write you love letters in my head
single-spaced, times new roman, 12-point font,
sfx: the clacking of a broken typewriter, the frustrated crumpling
& throwing of used paper.
I write them to you in the morning,
when there are no real words to say;
& sometimes, thankfully, you are beside me
so I do not fear the day.
I write them to you in the dead of midnight,
stumbling over myself & getting stuck in the
brambles of the idea of you, my legs scratched and
weary, my breath as shallow as my love & as rapid
as the writing of my inconsequential letters.
(I do prefer the mornings -
even when you are so far away I scream
for you and you do not hear)

I’d like to say you'll never get hurt again,
but that would be a lie,
& god knows you've had enough lies told
to you & by you & through you, or more devastatingly, all at once.
So I will tell you what is true now - & may not be, in
a million years, or the day after tomorrow - which is:
the sight & sound & sameness of you,
the thump of your fist against the table when you debate,
the wholehearted way in which you swing from one extreme
to the next - the temperature of your moments & the measure
of your moods.
I love them all; I lap you up
like my life depends on it -
though I know it does not.

I write you love letters in my head,
& you will never see them,
because they were meant to remain unsaid
in both polite company & in private;
though I think you catch hints here and there,
even though I try to hide it.