To Be a Poem

I wish I were not a fly on the wall,

but a page in your notebook.

To feel your fingers finesse me open.

Fold my edges,

smooth me hopeful.

To feel your ink spill over skin,

your poetry line by line

saturating my margins.

Oh to be torn from book,

and placed into your pocket.

A secret in your wallet,

a note folded but not forgotten.

To be a poem you withdraw

on a stage.

For your thumbs to sweep over me

as you word play,

your touch and I keeping place.

I wonder if I could ever be

as beautiful, as loved

to you

as poetry.