this book is yours

I wrote you this book
when I was nineteen.
The pages were black.
My ink was belief—
that you could reveal me
to our undressed mistakes;
The ones that you tore up
to hide behind your back.
We had not yet met—
and we likely will not,
but I wrote you this book
so you may learn
you have taught.

I was the fox.
You were the field.
We were the tint
that the painter had mixed.
You were the night.
I was the park.
We were the flowers
in that blackened garden.
I was the fool.
You were the slip,
at the hinge of my foot—
when I stood to be still.

I wrote you this book
when I was a child,
but as an adult—
I make you this smile.
The page was a knife.
My ink was the stream—
and at the edge of your life,
the earth washed off clean.
I wrote you this book—
and we still have not met.
But I will follow your thoughts
to where words are a sin.

I was the doll.
You were the bed.
We were the shadows
from a memory’s pen.
I was the filth.
You were the sheets.
We were the raspberries
picked fresh by the street.
When I was nineteen,
I knew you would come—
so I wrote down the drum
for you to beat with your tongue.
I was the clock.
You were the fire,
burning the town—
by the stroke of desire.

I wrote you this book
when my heart was broke—
but not by a girl;
only my luck.
The pages were black
but now they are white.
The ink was belief—
but now the pen is filled by my needs.
You were the witness.
I was the thief.
And by your final verdict,
my faults are set free.

I wrote you this book. I wrote you this line. The night is my howl. My voice is your cry.

written on 01/29/2010 by: Matt Kane