when I’m sure that no one’s watching —
I write what I feel.
I can’t do it on the bus,
when someone next to me might surreptitiously cast
one eye in my direction,
or at the office,
when someone might sneak a glance at my desk
from across a carpeted, cubicled span of inches.
Really, it’s best not to use paper at all,
in case it slips out of my pocket
while I’m climbing a flight of stairs,
and heavenforbid someone recognizes my handwriting.
So I write it on my heart instead,
traced into the veins and ventricles inside me,