I Don't Write Poems

I'm confused when you call my e-mails poetry. I don't write poems I try to explain, but all you do is nod your head up and down, with a knowing smile. In the beginning I can barely speak without choking on the words, so you say,"Why don't you write a poem about it?" I sigh with frustration, and once again explain that I don't write poems. "Okay then, journal about it, bring it in, or don't, but you need to write, and you need to trust me." So I write, and you read, sitting across from me in your rolling leather chair with your bifocals perched on the end of your nose. I pace nervously around your small office, or I look at all of the titles of books on your bookshelves. I'm afraid for some reason to look at you, afraid of what you will see if you look at me. This is when I realize that I care very much about what you think of me, and the intensity of my feelings frightens me. I want to please you, and out of that intention comes my first poem, written for you.

"So I give all my secrets away,
to hold like a wish in your hands,
a deep breath...and gone."

It was the first time that you had ever put your arms around me. I felt cared for, which was a comforting relief. I craved and needed the affection from you, and you didn't let me down. I thought that poem would be the first and last, but it wasn't. Who knew? I guess it is starting to look like I write poems.