I’d like to print this poem in the smallest font

To ensure that you would have to strain to read

I wish I could hide it on the next page

Or the page after that

Or, perhaps, penciled lightly into the margins

Of a better poem

Struck through with a line

Covered in white out

Erased from the back of a note book

But only a coward

Would hide the words I’ve been keeping

About your tattoos

And your skin

That feels like paper warm from a copy machine

And how I felt

That afternoon

Smelling new books with you

And how I felt like a fool

The night we first kissed

When I handed you a tool box I found in the trash