(to you)

you sit on my couch
all relaxed and casual
(an act maybe)
just sitting in my living room
as if it was yours.

and your hands --
they rest so delicately
on your knee,
on the back of the couch

and your eyes --
they speak when you speak
and dance when you laugh
and appraise me

and your voice --
it lilts and tumbles gently
over the things you say
(and leave unsaid)
and the rhythm matches the
tilt of your head.

but you sit on my couch
with the weight of empty space
between
that looks and words can penetrate,
but nothing else.

am I smiling too much?
it's the only way I know how to say
how much I wish
you'd come sit next to me.
but I'm afraid my smile seems
rather commonplace
these days
(to you)

what if I said it?
sang it
wrote it
drew it
that you are better
than any dream I've ever had
(except the ones with you in them)

you'd probably raise your eyebrows
and flash a smile
and say something witty
so I couldn't help but laugh
(cry)

but I've already written it down --
I'll sing it to you
(in your sleep)
I'll send you the drawing
(next week)
and if I don't say hi sometimes,
it's only because you caught me
thinking about you.