She wants a poem for her birthday

one of those I scribble at night

personalized to a fault

 

but for whom unrevealed

 

i rib her reluctant curiosity

poke at her shy jealousy

itd be intimate i tease

 

far more than usual.

 

She blushes knowing whats implied

grumbles how i can write

poems about love

 

without having been in love

 

i respond without pause

blood crashing in my ears

how she thinks i regard her

 

if not with love.

 

She scoffs dismissively

rolling away from me

her back a cold wall

 

i long to touch

 

she murmurs absently

that it wasnt what she meant

the kind of love she intended

 

romantic not platonic.

 

You idiot, I adore you.

All my love poems, are for you.

You blind idiot, they’re all for you.