“I’ve been wanting to write you a poem.
I think about it so often, in fact,
that I carry it with me:
as I brush my teeth in the morning,
something about you and floss and
cavities, how they’re linked to heart
disease. I carry it with me on my way out
of the door and onto the bus where
I sit beside a stranger who plays
their music so loudly that I can feel
the bass rattle around inside my chest. I
think about it at school, where you are
every way I can hold my pencil, drink
my coffee, eat my lunch. I think
about it in class, the undersides of
your wrists, all lovely pale like college ruled
paper. I think about it on the way
home in a quiet bus. I think about it in
the shower as I wash you off of my skin,
when I write your name on the fogged
up mirror after I get out. I add the date.
Withhold the heart. Wipe it clean.”