Invisible Ink

I’d like to write you poems about the freckles across your back, each like the sun-kissed center of a flower in bloom, the color of a cherry pit tossed into the grass on a warm summer day. Or perhaps poems about the barren, freckle-less expanse of skin between your shoulder blades, clean and new and like the universe from where the man on the moon stands with one step to take. Or maybe about the pock-marked, cratered topography map of your back that cannot be read by a pair of eyes, but by a pair of kind hands. I’d like to write you letters of complaint about the prickly hairs on your chin or the lack thereof. About how you speak too much—don’t say enough—don’t call often enough—call too much. About how your laugh is silent enough that I cannot hear it—is loud enough to wake the neighbors—hurts to hear because it’s sad and you won’t tell me why. And I’d like to write you love letters about your eyes—you blue-brown-green-hazel eyes. Or about your lips—your too thin—too full—too hard—too soft—too chapped lips. Or about your nose—your perfect—crooked—too big—too small—just right, Goldilocks nose. Or about your hands that might be small or they might be soft or calloused or they might be large enough that you could crush my own if you tried. But I’m not sure where to send them off to—my love letters and complaints and poems, because your address is written in invisible ink, and no matter how many times I iron over the envelope, I can’t seem to find where you are. But I promise to write the return address, just in case.