I want to write us a love poem,
but that heady word is a trapeze wire,
unbalanced, a bit risky, not said yet.

So what equals love without saying it?

Dear You, I’m glad we look at
each other the way we do.
Dear You, I’m glad of the number

of times your nails scratch my back,
of how many kisses we give in the shower,
hair soaked, lips pressed together

under the clear rain.

Dear You, you belong to my handwriting now,
you are at the mercy of my imagination,
you are doomed to be a fantasy, yet

surprise me with a reality that rivals
my what-ifs, my somedays, my one days
my once upon a times.

And Dear You, you are the first to

keep me guessing of our longitude,
just enough to leave me on my tip-toes,
eyes closed, waiting for a kiss that

may or may not come.

01/02/2006

Posted on 01/03/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky