ghostwriter

he looks like
he's been reading

poetry
all day

all mine

& i'm converted
more to a

show versus tell
theory

when his hair
falls into &
over his eyes

as he
focuses

the tip

of his tongue
in his teeth

starts

all my
little word
heartattacks

an image
of stubblescratch

raw along
the side of my
neck

all morning
accompanies

the ghosts
of fingertips

soft along
the sides of my
thighs

need his low
rumblings

to echo around
chest walls
pressed up against mine

or how shoulders might
shake still, when
he holds on tight &

laughs into my hair

& i could
draw diagrams
in disarming detail

if he ever
asked me to

but i just write

just
right

and he
will never see
what he

does to the mind of me