Dear Lover

I feel itchy, scratchy,
I sit to write you a love letter
before washing my hands, or face, or neck,
before turning off the car ignition
and unbuckling my safety belt.
I start,

Dear Lover...

I know the multiplication table by heart.
I know the formulas of seven deoxynucleotides
plus maybe an eighth
and the maiden names of thirteen US presidents’ wives.
I don’t know to write you a love letter.

Dear Lover...

It is midnight plus three hours,
I am sweating again.
I exit the room to the porch
letting the sudden tropical outpour wash the clothes off my body
and the ink off the crumpled piece of paper,

Dear Lover...

I didn’t see you arriving.
I watched left
you came right
and the only sign of arrival were those two hands
sliding underneath my t-shirt, pinching my nipples.
I wanted to apologize for not writing you a love letter
but you filled my mouth summer.