There is this place inside my body, the same place
where I cry, where I feel pride, where no uncertain
measures of the heart occur. Where I may feel lonely
or on occasion, strangely wounded.
It’s like how you can slide something thin
into the skin under your fingernail,
so thin you don’t even realize until you feel the pain
biting into your heart. No, not your heart—that place
beneath it, so deep you can’t breathe.
You catch the air in your chest
with a sharp intake of wincing breath,
and everyone stops to look at you.
In that same place—the very same tender place,
I carry the hope of you,
the enduring, everlasting,
romantic hope of you.

© clk