I

It is more than a year since I took a pencil in hand
and tried to press tenderness into the lines —
hidden within a quiet heart.
I would be lying if I said my heart is quiet.
Until I had wept everything out, I did not know what lay within it.
Until I met you,
it would not have occurred to me to take myself in my sights,
to fall in love
and then — pray, go ahead —
to woo your attention with these verses.
If I may:
when you are free, caress me with your glance, at least once.
Is it behind me? I ask. Has it vanished into oblivion —
the stiffening of lips, the trapped breath, averted gazes,
just to quiet the pulse, that frantic beating in the chest.
You see, I am a liar.
I tell you about the silent heart — well,
I should have been a comedian;
over a glass of wine
that silence tastes wild, a little tart.