I wanted to write this for you,
but I couldn't think of anything
that you haven't. So instead,
I'm giving you all of my intention
tied with the white satin bow
that is the absence of follow-through.

I would've explained why the inspiration
that Kandinsky's vibrantly abstract
triangles and subtly winking circles
failed to generate in you, excited me.

Or, that the way you pour your tea
from cup to cup to cool it, is dangerous
and attractive.

But, your gentle hands have already wrung
me from the fabric of my words,
as if you were doing laundry,
and I, like the soapy water expunged,
can only look up at you and gleam.