Maybe I could write a book of you,
reverse engineer all the steamy bits
and find out how you tick.
I would be that writer,
determined and barking at strangers
when they dared to call.
I would write you on an old typewriter
that clacked away the ocean's waves
outside my door.
Secretly, I would write myself into your end notes,
a road map of where and when we intersected
as if that could explain
how we no longer meet.
You would consume me.
And I would yield.