Poetry

I worry
that people will think
my poems are about me
when all they’ll ever be about

is the pattern
of her laugh
the victory
in his smile

secrets told
at four in the morning
sleepy grins
at three in the afternoon

how the grass brushes
the sides of our faces
as we look at each other
under a breezy sun

the trailing touch
along brick walls
built a hundred years ago
just for this moment

the last hug
wet and sloppy
even though we’ll see each other
tomorrow

why would my poems be about me
when they could only ever be about
us