When I try to write a poem about him
My fingers stiffen and ache: stop.
the feeling of his hand in mine.
I write one line, or two,
But he cannot be a complete thought.
How can he be
When I have taken bits and pieces of myself
(smeared in writing on my heart; we call it poetry)
Sprinkled confetti down a romanticized dream-
We use our five senses to describe the world around us
(poetically, of course)
The smell of his sweatshirt
But not the warmth of his chest
The taste of salt in black ink
But not the sound of his voice over the phone
at two in the morning,
No metaphor of him can exist as a whole
He can only be a fragment to me
I will not write more.
Fear of an ending leaves him as
A work in progress: broken