You say that I never make poems for you.
Yet I write of city that kisses the sea
and the scents of forgotten old docks you hold on to
with the dreams of a foreign land “far far away.”
I know that I never bought flowers for you—
that I grew them on soil that knows nothing of Spring.
But I sowed them with hands that have mastered your landscape and
fingers that trailed every end of your earth.
I’m a civilization that fell in your arms
and a tongue that speaks mostly of late Summer nights
when my body would curve to the memorized effort
and form that would always find home in your outline.
I won’t even turn on the lights anymore
And I won’t even need all the help I can get
from a half open pane that would welcome the streetlamps that
sketch out the clothes we would leave by the door.
And you’d say that I never write poems for you.
Yet I’d lay by your side with a pair of soiled hands
that can never afford to buy flowers with words
that are only of docks and of late Summer nights,
and a city that never stops kissing the sea.
Submission Name: A Master of “You” 
