Leaky Faucet

I’ve written you lines

Even walls haven’t read;

I’ve engraved them

In the linens on your bed

Stitched neatly between the seams,

Of where our skin

Used to meet.

Gently interlaced

In the hair

Standing up

On your neck

And at the end

Of the day,

At the ends

Of our fingertips,

The literature

Pumping through my veins–

For you–

Drips aimless;

I guess I’ve always been

A bit of a leaky faucet.