Riverletters

 

He writes in rivers, not ink-

each line a kiss cast downstream,

a soft confession

 

folded in metaphor, drifting

toward the boy who speaks

in silences and thinks rivers are seas.

 

The first boy, heart a floodplain, sends verses like offerings:

You are the bend in me,

the hush before the current breaks.

He leaves them tucked in notebooks, in margins, in glances.

 

The second boy reads them like weather— brief, beautiful, unpredictable.

He does not answer, but sometimes his eyes hold the shape of a reply.

 

They are both poets, but only one dares rhyme love with boy. The other writes of oceans, of vastness, of things too deep to name.

 

Still, the river-boy believes.

 

He believes in tributaries,

in time,

in the way water wears down stone until even silence becomes a kind of yes.