I shall write poetry to keep myself in love with you.

Yet my most heartfelt piece was not in rhythmic form;
it was the passionate prose of a letter
--- a note, as you call them---
written in furious reply
to your lovelorn hesitance.

With that pen, I transcirbed the roaring geography
of my soul, of my present passion, and
I fear that I have now lost my love to paper. To words
which you keep close to heart, with
great expectation. Words
that I am unable to rectify, whose shakiness
your candied ginger orbs may have missed.

I told you, my girl,
all I want is your happiness
a bliss to stencil the paper clouds. . . .

my only qualm lies
in those slave-sold words:

whether or not they remain true

whether or not they are good enough.

I may fail, you know.
You well know.
But for now, twilights apart,
I shall write poetry to keep myself
in love with you.