They say the hardest part

of the poem to write is the beginning,

but the beginning is full of avoided

eye contact, shy smiles, butterflies,

pulling apart the layers

of nutty bars under the desk

in the computer lab in October

to make them last longer.

Nerves making patterns of speech

disjointed and messy,

lips first pressed making your other senses tingle,

the sounds around you underwater, tips

of fingers like velvet

weave into other's embrace, to lodge there

for months.

The middle with the turning point conflict isn't difficult,

it's full of busy days, headaches lingering, trickling

from your head to the bottom

of your chest, water runs

under your cheekbones

to bring tension behind your eyes,

vision tunneling,

chest tightening,

lips that once felt shocks,

dry,

stuck together from lack of saliva,

tongue behind teeth,

under teeth,

bite

to make it seem that the hot droplet rolling

down your nose was an accident.

They say it’s easy to end a poem,

but how can you end it peacefully without leaving

the reader alone, blankly staring

into his coffee cup with the fading ring

of the door’s bell in your wake.