Reticence

the poem I should have sent you is the
 one I whisper into my coffee and sing
 to my shadow when I’m alone on the sidewalk;
 the poem I should have sent you is love
 papered with scraps of futile grief, ransomed
 with blood and skin shed in locked white rooms;
 the poem I should have sent you sounds like
 what you mumble in your sleep when you’re
 dreaming next to someone you adore, lithe limbs
 over her waist and her fingers gentle in your hair;
 the poem I should have sent you is the tender
 braille on my hips that your fingers read in the dark,
 secret topography of knives and healing;
 the poem I should have sent you is a hand-carved
 confession of my sedulous monstrosity, bares its
 wicked fang discolored with the rotting entrail of a devoured lover;
 the poem I should have sent you prays to the
 ancestors of every word that comprises its reticent
 lyric and verses not above a whisper,
 and here I am writing in pen a poem I'll never send,
 etched over the pencil strokes of foregone truth.
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