There are many things I haven’t done:
I’ve never slipped out while my parents were asleep
to throw rocks against a window in Morse code
to puncture the silence of a summer night
with the poetry of rattling stones.
I’ve never composed the vandal’s verse on a bathroom wall
a promise in #2 pencil scribbled in the stall
a ballad that ends with the word ‘forever.’
I was searching for the prose of permanence
in the sunset
in the autumn leaves
in the fleeting things that seemed to need it most.
I have this deficiency
Maybe it’s because I never studied the slang
of grasping moments with hands instead of stanzas.
I want to trap a symphony in the cage of my fingers
and tame it to translate my heart for you.
But keeping silent
is all I’ve ever learned to do.