Your crooked smile
pulls at my heart one more time
in a burst of light
and I remember your voice,
your words falling like the sky
upon my open heart.
So I call to my pen
the words in my hand
poured out onto paper for you.
I go carefully,
creeping through consonants and vowels,
sneaking through syllables –
for I must not give myself away.
This letter alone
feels like adultery, I confess,
as losing myself in the curve of his arms
is disloyalty itself –
and I wonder sometimes:
What if you saw?
In the end, it is in his arms I sleep,
and in truth,
I am unfaithful only to myself;
however many words drip from my eyes
I know you will never read them –
I write letters to no one.
