I can’t write you
little notes anymore.
I still know your address,
there is still available paper
in the gray morning when you
are asleep between my sheets,
my pen can still form the lines
of your name, the swoop and curl
of the middle letters, the walls
on the outside. I try
and try to find something
that must be said, and am afraid
I’ve said it all.
These are words searching for the place
in my heart you occupy. A territory
walled, like your name, annexed
from the rest, this part which
was once the center
of my being, now a crater. I’m waiting
for you to come and fill it in.