The ink is heavy with affection

The ink is heavy with affection.

I overthink the hills and valleys
Of a teasing book inscription,
The dots, the slant, the cursive,
The stamp: best, dearly,
Truly yours.

There is tension in the letters.

I analyze even the spaces between
Pen-strokes, their distance and
Claustrophobia. I squeeze them
Tighter, closer, with only an
Infinitesimal sort of blank to
Separate the commas.

There is anxiety here.

There is a plain page and
A forbidden optimism,
The cruel art of lending a book
And a heart.