May 2005

This Is Not a Psychotic Love Poem

I won’t mention

that I’ve counted

the hairs on the back

of your neck thirty-two

times in the last

four minutes.



I won’t point out

that I sleep

with a grocery list

you once threw away.



I won’t imply

that I lurk

outside your window

every night

just to watch you read.



I won’t suggest

that when I close

my eyes I see your mouth.



I won’t insinuate

that your hair

smells like laundry

and patchouli

mixed with a touch

of chlorine,

and is as soft

as the underside

of orchid petals.

copyright 2005 Leslie Maryann Neal