I woke up to write
before the coffee, the sunrise
it was words that fancied my skin
to forget my dream the moment my eyes opened.
What is it that makes you want a woman like me?
Your list is long
and everything you say
makes me reevaluate my life as if it were a spreadsheet.
I know you only want to use your knees to spread my legs
across yours. It is what I want. I really do admire
how you are so quick to the point.
You do not miss a song, I know I hate to text
and read way too much. I am quiet and methodic
concentrate on the typewriter as if it loved me back.
How could we be here?
People dying from cancer, heart attacks,
and I’m aching for you. It is not a myth,
or a legend, it is how my heart wants
to be pressed up close next to yours
with no fabric between.
I am not anyone special, trust me.
If you lived with me, you would see
so best to elevate my status by
being silent of all my defaults
eliminate my errors
by not telling you anything
more. I will keep it for my poems
my books, my next life.
This is what writers do,
we beat ourselves up with words.
The difference between us
yet all the words
you refuse to share with me
I know them already.