Keeping you,
I hold you in my hands.
The keys I press and depress
all the lettered buttons at my disposal,
and you’re still here taking all I have to give
every damned expensive word and thought.
You don’t even know
how much I’ve given.
How much I’ve needed to give,
keep giving to you
words you’ve always asked for
these words on paper;
love,
desire.
but I’m still beneath the sheets
with writer’s block or lack of inspiration.
All I have are simple words, ideas.
I wanted there to be something elaborate
hiding in our quiet moments,
some perfectly placed comma refining
years into stanzas, but I keep searching,
turning the months, turning the phases
unable to put the end into words.
