#18

It is not as complicated

as I make it out to be.

The poem will write itself, 

it will describe the inner 

workings of my beaten heart

It will shine on a moonless 

night when you’re listening 

to Bob Dylan and perch on 

your shoulder whispering 

the sweet nothings I could 

not say to you last time 

It will wait next to me when 

I’m on the phone with you 

and you ask me to join you 

for tea. I will smile and hope

that you’ll hear it though 

the silence on the line