On Second Thoughts

At Least You’re There

I may one day write a poem
about you, but know I’ll never
tell, lest you throw your hands up in
despair and question why I bring
so much emotion to pen. So

I’ll say its fiction about a
woman I saw in a café
crying as her heart was flayed, and
thought I can’t share with you I feel
your warmth support agreement that
there are some things left best unsaid.

And on separate sides of the
bed we sleep are our own lamps,
paperback fictions lying beside
our heads. At least I know the
warmth of you is there, to comfort
me, when I’m scared.