FOOTNOTES

 He is a draft,

unedited poetry,

unrefined humour,

while I,

an editorial, 

written in prose,

and analogized wit.

i am tight lined and considered,

while he,

rhymes with raw intention.

His company,

a hush between heartbeats.

His aura,

a warm gentle whisper.

Our eyes may wander,

 but they always meet.

And when he looks at me

long enough, 

my pace unravells,

as fast as our plot.

he is the book i keep reading, 

a bookmarked page,

with notes between margins.

words I've read a thousand times,

yet still yearn to understand.

I complete his sentances,

but he punctuates me. somedays,

he rewrites me.

each look a soft ink spill,

across my carefully drawn lines.

Our story is stalled,

from the pages I tore,

instances of our near-misses,

folds from when I hesitated,

harsh highlights from my critique,

I left myself annotated,

his translation still unclear.

His incomplete plot,

Of doubtfully scribbled whispers

and stutters in subtext

Make no use of bold ink,

Just ellipses…

waiting for permission

to exist on the same page.

 

I am the line of demarcation, 

of my own pro con list.

Lost in a limbo,

of my undefined feelings,

and his unsaid words.

He's too italicized,

 I need a bold statement.

Not linger in parentheses,

but press into the sentence.

Leave me unwritten.

I crave a blot of his ink,

but he holds his pen,

like it might break,

As I lay in wait,

for a peak in our plot.