Abnormal Behavior
If you knew I was writing you poems
you might come to expect it, you might
eventually say You used to write me poems,
but you don't do that anymore. And I
would have to find the time, prioritize
writing over the long list of other things,
like going to the gym or remodeling
the basement, which is what I do already:
I write you poems first. You just don't
know it. I've been tempted several times
to tell you. I think I have even said
What if I wrote you a poem? and you
looked at me like you were thinking
As if... and I thought to myself If you
only knew, and I felt a little smug. Imagine
the lovely moment we might have when
I handed you a stack of poems, so many
meditations on you, on us, on love and
its odd complications and quiet corners.
Would you swoon? I'd love it if you
swooned, but you don't seem much for
swooning. And that lovely moment
could only be lovely once, and I'd expect
so much, which could only feel like
some obligation from which we would
both have to move on, and then I'd
worry about what would happen to
the poems (where would you keep them?)
and about sustainability, and would any
poem come to me as naturally as these?
And isn't it better to write you poems
in secret and let them dance in the shadows
of our life like imps, like Eros, like
the scent of flowers on the wind? I know
you'd have an answer if you knew.
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