It is almost 5am
and I find myself awake,
drowsy, and thinking
How I wish I could pluck you
from my dreams like the daisy in the field.
Find your name in these poems
like treasure hunts in Autumn.
It is hard, all this thinking
when I remember you are a ghost,
like the airplane I saw glide by yesterday,
full of dreaming people.
You are sitting on the tip
of my tongue. Between the words,
at the end of my sentence - before the full stop.
When you wrote me as a footnote,
in the margin, I corrected your grammar,
but you said that love (poems)
couldn’t always make sense.
Sometimes, I used to press flowers
between your poem-ed pages -
there is something so fragile
and delicate about love on paper
that suited being adjacent
to those small, pressed skeletons
that I’d look at when you were long gone.
She said - “It’s always summer time
in my mind. It’s rainy roads
and muddy hoods, midnight moonlight,
fragile and thin, pale skin and echoes
that could guide you home.
Moths in lanterns - floating
to the sky, a rose with thorns
and the whisper of a prayer.
Remember how these words
and poems can seem to say
nothing at all
and yet - they are my every feeling
that I’ve ever felt for you.”