I discovered 20 ways not to write you a poem
without the clichés of romantic love.
Arranging in verses your hands,
maps of your right thigh,
the pending steps on streets the city won’t pave.
How do you force words to become something else?
Letters, poems, meops, peoms, where you would be the addressee.
I type and erase, again and again,
while another bond accompanies your quarantine of nits.
Letters get stuck between my phalanges,
sharp glass over the wall of language.
The lice-treatment shampoo bottle exclaims: “Make sure the whole family uses the treatment.”
Perfect excuse to ask you:
what are we?
I reread the message,
erase it.
I reread the message,
erase it.
I send you a sticker of kittens kissing,
and your name next to an emoji.
I don’t know whether to cut my hair,
or whether we’ll really be able to grow.
Photography by Alejandro Iván De León Leal
David reads books, writes, and sometimes talks and writes about books.