We soon learned
my touch crumpled you to paper;
no more embraces. It wasn’t fair
to twist your tears to ink,
to fill my pen with the turned-down
corners of your lips. One kiss
left lines on your face,
and it was all I could do to keep
from scrawling poetry
across the blank space,
to spread blue across the silence,
a flood of explanations.

Forgive me. I’m a creature of many words
and you fit better in my pocket
when you’re on paper. I can make you cruel,
if I wish- justify the crack across your spine-
or tender when the muses call for love.
But now I see the tissue of your neck,
ink blots like bruises. I was too eager.
You were too beautiful. And now you’re blowing
like newspaper on a wind I didn’t write,
unfolding into a sonnet
that never knew your name.