Your poetry is my weakness
my guilty indulgence
my secret shame
like closet alcoholism
I lock myself in my room
and with the glow
of a chiffon-shaded lamp
I run my fingers
along your lines
ever so slowly
allowing the
glass-winged insects
of your genius
take on the form
of leaping flames
inside my spine
I close my eyes
and breathe the musk
of your rich soul
emanating from the pages
and let your
synthesized presence
unlock my
long dry spell
of literary silence

I pushed
all of other artists’
just to concentrate
on you
so that I could stand
in the center of
verbal expression
in its finest form
and figure out
why I write

it’s because words
are the language
of your love