dearest, my dearest,
I only write anti-love poems,
but for you, I will make
an exception.

I mostly fear you will read
this and say
it did not measure up
to what you were
expecting,
and that I was not
the writer you hoped
I would be,
and for this,
you reject me.

the greater the
cracks in my
cement open up
to swallow the birds
from the sky.
There is no end to
this and so
no end to my
loss if you
decide
(for i will never decide).
I hope that
you love me more
even if the words never
touch the air in
a puff of winter breath,
and your hand never
finds mine,
mitten in mitten.