I like the way you word yourself
It’s very self-assured.
You don’t um a lot
Or hm or huh,
I do.

I hope you didn’t notice the way
My wording came undone,
When you turned for me to speak.
How every time your laugh came to a halt
I raised a glass to my lips,
buying time
for my next line.

I like that you don’t you um a lot.
The obvious thought behind your words –
Pre-conceived
Precise.

We write differently 
We love the same 

I’m a poet
My words do not fall neatly into prose like yours
They don’t even fall neatly onto the page
They scatter
Constructing and deconstructing before my eyes 
They come alive and move with such vigour that I can’t contain them 
Like ants resting on the page
They form their own patterns 

I admire your long lines,
Punctuated and proper.
To you, words aren’t an impulse 
They do not sway your body as they do mine.
Your mind makes them dance 
You bring them to life
The way you wield language is magic
It’s romance.

I picture myself beside you 
Catching my words as you choreograph yours
Yet the same affection lives in us both 
We write differently 
We love the same.

I should have never let you touch my notebook.
Hard on the outside,
Paper is still susceptible to the elements.
Each page porous,
Succumbing
To the rot that runs through you.
Your fingertips leave a mark on the page
Bleed through to the next.