Raindrops | Poetry

she writes about me

she writes poetry for me,
in a language i don't understand.
and i'm left with this knot in my heart,
the terrible desperation and the growing ache.
does she write about my freckles,
which look like dust sitting
on
a book you wanted to read but never did?
does she write of my skin whose
streets and thoroughfares are dotted
with the mistakes of my past?
does she write of my eyes which
have winter even in May,
where the summer of dreams
has died under the frost of doubt?
i wonder if she writes of my fingers,
who have held hers long enough
to draw the map of her fingerprints.
maybe, she writes of those times,
when our souls got entangled,
when our bodies disappeared in thin air;
when our tongues gave up all vocabulary,
except the word called love.

i will wonder a hundred more things
of what she writes about me,
and in that constellation of thought,
the star that'll shine the most would
be the thought if she writes
about how much she loves me.