I came to know your open e,
your, languid loopy g.
Your b-r combos looked like h,
making hush of brush
and him of brim. When hidge
should have been bridge, I cracked
the code of you and understood
that one particular failing,
one of your many, so easy to overlook
against the backdrop of what you wrote.
I fell in love with you for your words
written not for me, of course, but always
seeming to be exactly of me. I tapped the keys
for you all morning, and then you’d send me
off to class with a wave and a thanks,
never once reading me as I read you.
At night, you must have roved the town
for tales to tell. When did you sleep or write?
I’d lie awake and type your words again,
ever so gently on my skin
stroking that quiet part of me
that would dream of you, of us,
lying together at the bottom of your u,
my questing fingers seeking out your q.
—Lisa Vihos, Sheboygan, WI