There is not enough of you.
Not enough of the special brand of mischief
your eyes promise.
Not enough of your promiscuous laugh
that has made itself so comfortably at home in my heart.
Not enough of your crooked smile,
or the map of your thighs in the morning
a lazy but confident promise
if only
I will stay in bed.
There is not enough of you.
so I stole your shadow from a sunny day
to shade me while I read
I convinced your reflection to follow me home
and watch me as I write.
There is not enough of you,
so I will write you into a line,
a poem
a book
a dream.