Pride

Pity, how one cannot sincerely say,
“I haven’t been thinking of you.”

In Confidence

I know, that sometimes you wonder
about these poems I write.

The ones you inspire
that I send off into the void –
little messages in HTML bottles.

And I wonder if you ever feel that
these wayward tidings of my love,
witnessed on far-off screens and
imbibed by anonymous passersby,
in any way disfigure
the seal of our intimacy.

It is not an unreasonable proposition.

I tend to bear myself without pretense –
unabashed with epiphanies concerning
the incremental manner of our hearts.


There remain, however, certain details
that will never grace these pages.

The silly nicknames we’ve made for one another.
The words we whisper as we drift to sleep.
The hardships that are not mine to help carry.
The dreams after which we still give chase.

These and many, many more, number
the secrets I keep, only between us.

Quill

Turn thee away from me.

Grant me no quarter
and issue no good tidings.

Bring nails to this face
and a spear to my heart.

Bore me full with holes
of all manners and means,
and you will find that
I bleed, though only in ink.