By Joseph Hesch
Did you know that I used to
write poems to you every night?
I had to write them there on the ceiling
because I could never get these words out
in conversation with you,
my heart frozen so it could not pour,
held fast by unbreakable icy bonds,
my mind scrambled by
your blessed (damned) proximity.
I penned these words in invisible ink,
that formed at the corners of my eyes
and ran down past my ears
to fill the well of my pillow.
they had evaporated,
as did my half-dreamed hopes
for something forever to be unseen,
to be unfelt, and, for all you know,