It has taken me days
of tapping keys underneath artificial light,
and hours of ink stains on the pads of my fingers,
to produce a message
beautiful enough for you to read.
But I learned about the crease on your brow,
that the meaning of it is
a clear white pain or deep black pleasure,
how the expressions you make now
have not changed since you were a boy
hiding shoes in the bathtub,
and the new, never recorded recollection
that gathers in your eyes,
when you look beyond at what I can’t see yet.
Knowing all these things has led me
to one, absolutely certain conclusion:
If you told me you had to leave,
the last night with you
would be the easiest choice I’ve ever made.