The words I wanted to tell you

are different from the ones I have always told you.

I was afraid you would have judged me,

so they turned into a marble that rolled under my bed

and I could no longer find it.

I hate sugar in my coffee,

but every morning, I put two spoonfuls in

because you like it that way.

(Maybe I just need the sweetness). 

The notes you wrote me,

I keep them all between the pages of my novels.

But sometimes I find them tied around my ankles

and they trip me up.

It doesn't matter, really.

If you think about it, it's a bit like falling off a bike.

You'll leave a few scars on my knees

and someone will give me a star-shaped plaster.

At night, the silence between us whispers awful things to me,

I try to banish it by imagining myself somewhere else.

But wherever I am, there you are, too.

Can you hug me?

Hold me as tight as you want,

it's okay if you hurt me.