I wish I was writing words for you
sonnets and sestinas and villanelles
of love and passion, desire and dream
I wish I was dedicating my book to you
gracious and graceful, with different
verse filling pages of hope and joy
I wish I was holding you close on cool mornings
before the heat of the day, and the wakeful life
took us from our gentle doze
I wish I was whispering elation to you
to only your ear and heart
ecstasy of emotion our exulted indulgence
I am still writing words for you
a mishmash of broken shards and thoughts
of anguish and pain, agony and grief
I am still dedicating my book to you
in sorrow and loss, with affliction
writ large across each page of distress
I do not get to hold you by morning or night
in heat or cool, nightmares come asleep or alert
to scour the recesses of my woe
I am not whispering my soul to you
I scream silently from the abyss in shouts
that you never hear in your scorn
