I write poems, never knowing who reads what.
And of the ones who tell me they do; I know you do,
But I don’t know which ones you read—
or when you began to read.
I write too much, it seems, about too many.
But I wanted to write one for you
and your lipsticks, hips, stockings, and shoes.
I was in love with you for the longest time.
And you spoke to me about your men,
probably never suspecting that I wished
I had been one—
that you bitched about to another, like me—
who wished the same;
To stand alone beside your bed— naked in sweat,
observing your eyelids flicker and your hair tussle
as you turn over, away from me.
Yes, I hope you are reading this
and understand it is about you.
But there have been so many of you—
that I can’t guarantee that this was so
much about you than about a dream.
I am still in love with you, somewhere;
And I consecrated this poem
while you were engaged, got married—
and I was or will be
at your wedding; One way or another.
Let’s do lunch. Let’s do more than lunch.
Let’s do dinner. Let’s talk about your favorite sonnet.
Let’s struggle to speak what I never said.
I love you. Do not take these
lipsticks, hips, stockings, shoes—
and tuck them into the closet of another.
I still have the space for you
unless this poem, too, goes unread.
Or by the time your read this,
I have been dead. *wink*