There’s only one way to reach you
I attach syllables and letters,
Yet I stutter through my words
I tell you that I am articulate on paper
You ask me if people like that still exist,
In a time of sexual inflation,
When the spoken word beats the written word,
When sex forgets about foreplay,
When kisses become an inconvenience –
Yes, I still blush when you speak to me
I am flustered and dry-mouthed. I desperately need my ink.
I compose long messages and carefully penned paragraphs
I ask you a million and one Questions.
And I use that same ink to record your answers.
I keep a journal, so that I may carry you around in it, the folded pages embrace all you’ve told me, and the blank ones anticipate all you’ve yet to tell.
You’re wary, and afraid.
And I know we’ve both read more than we should, because there is such a thing as too ideal, as too delved in the world of words.
We lose track of the realm of possibility, of today.
So I pencil in our meeting date.
I wait to painstakingly inscribe my notes on your lips, on your hands, leave you stained with my ink.
And everyone knows how maddening it is to remove ink stains.
But I suspect you’ll want to keep me.
