Lines Crossed - Noaa Rienecker

I turn lovers over 
like pages of a book,
riveted to the last word. 

A series of vignettes, 
enrapturing, heartbreaking, 
a volume I cannot put down, 
writing it and reading it
all at once. 

Your page has lines
crossed out at the top,
revisions and open questions
scribbled in the margins.

The corners are stained
with coffee and beer
and there are smudges 
of ink and dirt, 
wrinkles and small tears
from careless and hurried stowage. 

Anyone who writes, hell,
speaks,
has a peculiar vocabulary,
reliable devices, 
hopefully employed in the 
appropriate time and place, 

but the sweet nothings 
that, to date, 
had showered me 
with kisses
fell flat and trite 
on your page,
like plastic flowers 
and bad candy 
near the hallmark aisle
at Safeway.

“Use your brain cells,” 
you said, 
“Win me over.”
and I said “Fuck You,” 
and kissed you hard. 

Your page flows easily
and paradoxically
arrests me as if I’ve 
turned to a mirror 
and found my face 
covered in soot. 

I do not yet know if you
will fill one page
or many, but for 
your fingers in my hair,
for your greyblue eyes, 
your voice in speech and song, 
for your devotion to feeling
and being 
        and loving 
            and knowing 
                and 
                    not 
                        knowing, 

I will read with rapt attention
and write with the utmost care
until we find the last word,
if we find it at all.