I hold back on writing to you because enough people give you praise.
What weight would my words hold? What difference would the ink of my love make?
I hold back on writing to you because I want from you the devotion I’m too tired to give.
At a command, a branch will not offer a fig. One must pull and work for it.
So, won’t you work for this?
I’ve already reasoned with your shortcomings.
New curtains have been hung, and the Turkish cupboard has been dusted.
For you, I am ready.
I would dream of you but the moon is a woman and she won’t let me.
I have learned not to rest in a home built from strings of words.
Periods prove no point, exclamations marks don’t excite me, and
a grammarian’s suitcase does not have enough commas
to embrace me when your promises fall short.
I hold back on writing to you, because your heart isn’t ready to listen.
The Ink of the heavens now rests, so when our timing is rightfully positioned, make an offering to me with conviction.
Peace and Blessings,
(Y’all this shit right here is mad corny, don’t know what got into me)