You asked me                              
to write you
a love letter.
Instead I send
this poem
with unknown
intentions and
no expectations.

All I know is the simple thought
of your existence  
makes my cheeks go numb,
my thoughts jumble
I need to get more oxygen
to my brain,
my nerves never end
as my hands fumble,
my blood turns
to hot chocolate,
and my skin buzzing
like the trains
that pass by in the night when I wish
we could be together.

I lied before.
My hope is that
this is  not enough for you,
as it is not for me.
I also hope
this poem makes the corners
of your mouth
curl up
because that is
the least I can
do for you,
for all you have
done for me.
And if this poem
does not move
the muscles in your
face at all,
at least I have
the thought.

And maybe
I’ll never know
either way.
But for now,
it is my turn to ask
something of you:
How’s the weather?

Meaningless is the introspection
of a solitary lover
with a succubus to impress
just to fail like all the rest.
Greedy are the handouts
of a body borne charity
satiation of the poor
without knowledge of her lore.
Osmosis to attention
she commands the lustful gaze
radiating an appetite unrivaled
a raging libido with no title.

Tears swelling behind the dam of my heart
still strong to Mother Nature’s abuse,
but fractured by years and
cracked by hands.

One day,
when my dam-of-a-heart is attacked,
beat down and broken,
when it floods this town with woe,
I swear, I swear,
I would find your prints branded on the
handle of a hammer.

so i burned the kite and and the mails
scattered their ashes to the winds
in hope
at least
You would hear
even if they wouldn't.

i saw the promise You made to Noah,
*Thank you for hearing me out.

And then I wonder
What am I waiting for?

The flying kite never returns.
Postal mails not replied.
Someone unkind
severed our connections.