through the poetry you
you wrote with your eyes
the poetry you wrote for me
and someone else.
And as my pen ran out of ink
I shook it violently -
condemning it to hell and everlasting
damnation, watching it drain uncontrollably
as if being sucked out
from the other end by want.
And all I ever wanted was to hug
you and hold you close.
To stop and savor the words
that you spoke.
(c) February, 1999, Steven H. Lee
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