last week you asked

me to write you a love poem,

so I did.
In simple, clear words I spelled out
the way I feel when
you look at me. I wrote your poem

in big letters on
the kitchen dry-erase board

there

the words blinked out at
us (for a week or so):
pen marks and
smudged
declarations of devotion

on a plain white canvas
on a squeaky pantry door.

your poem opened
and closed (several
times a day),

and could even be read
after the lights were turned off
before coming to bed.

today I tried to wipe
it off (because who
really needs to
read a love poem

over and over anyway?),
but it won’t completely rub off.

there’s a blue shadow of love words
left upon the surface

and inked into our hearts.

© martha lee phelps