I should have hit delete.
on that thought.

instead I named it,
named it mordant,
watched it creep

a paper cut, leached of colour
across my typing fingers sweeps
delete. delete. delete.

every phrase turns to you
but I’m too cowardly to
tell you how
I couldn’t take my eyes off you.

never could find the nerve to
express myself better
always felt you should know
composed countless letters

delete, delete, delete
my love, my love, my love
delete, delete, my sweet
delete and backspace. There.
and never anywhere,

where it may show.

Every phrase, always, you
so afraid it could be, didn’t want it to be
always knew, in my heart, you would do better, so much better
than me:

find a confident girl
find a lovely, lovable, girl
settle down, listen to all my music with her
share your witty remarks and
sprawl back on the carpet and laugh
and move on and learn guitar and strum and leave me behind
with the blank letters and shyness constricting my throat
and my arms thrown around empty lines I
never really wrote.

Deleted and rewrote,
my love.