18 sitting in a tree house
while the rain drizzled

you were writing every word I spoke
in pencil
so it couldn’t wash away

each tone was magical
every syllable divine
you sighed with my every breath

you didn’t like poetry
never saw inspiration
but you always had to hear mine

you recognized it as the key
to comprehending me

I could stop writing
about all the “you’s”

but in every “you,”
there is
mostly me.

07/05/2005