Too busy writing poems on the wall

to see

that you were the only thing

saving me 

from inevitability. 

Being inevitably blue. 

Cyan,

Sapphire,

Cerulean, too. 

Too busy writing poems on the wall 

to ask what’s your favorite flower? 

And could the petals come in three?

Like you and me,

and this poem 

that I can’t get out my head - 

some call it love - 

but we’ve never did that before 

so I write

poems on the wall 

because the warmth of your perfume 

smells of intimacy 

peeking her head through the window. 

Too busy writing poems on the wall

because the vulnerability of saying these words to you

comes too close to I love you.

But I love you 

doesn’t come close to the dance 

in my soul,

an otherworldly dance,

that feels like healing. 

Too busy writing poems on the wall 

because your presence alone 

deserves to be remembered as fine art. 

I write this on the wall 

in remembrance of you.