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