The First Real Love Poem I Wrote In Years

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Soft songs
soft as cigarette smoke in springtime air or
the brush of an eyelash
against your lover's cheek when you get this
close.
And all you want to do is stay.
In this moment,
in his arms,
in that pure, clean note,
and that's all you'll ever need.
Forever and ever.
Amen.

Don't you dare let go.
She said.
Hand clasping hand, gentle brush of a thumb up
her skinny wrist.
He smiled.
I won't.

Kafka wrote a love letter.
He asked, pleaded, his beloved
to please write him only once a week.
Not, you see, because he didn't want to hear from her.
Quite the contrary.
In Truth, my darling,
he couldn't bear to hear from her every day.
He was overwhelmed by his love for her,
mad with passion.
Obsessed.
I worry that is what I am becoming.
I don't smoke, I won't drink,
and yet
I'm an addict.
I need your voice, your face.
Need to hear you wax poetical on
sentiments of
love.
I so desperately need to believe.

Something about you makes me think
you could be it.
My lucky break.
She said.