I keep thinking - I’ll write this or that
about your lashes, the way your knuckles fold;
how your voice sounds at the digital chat.
But I don’t; all things cannot be told
in neat verses, iamb by iamb, in slow lines
of pentametric perfection, rolled
and wrapped snugly in straight/slanting rhymes,
the syllable counts precisely controlled,
rising and falling even as your breath;
but maybe it’s ragged now, maybe you hold
your words and life back, their length and breadth
concealed. Maybe you too have grown old.
And that is all I get to write for verse:
your lashes; and how our worlds diverge.