If I could still write
I’d write us into a poem
While I still could
While we still existed.
I’d write our private moments
For the public eye
And, like before, like it always was,
It’d be beautiful.
I’d write whatever it was
That kept me awake all spring
So that it scans; so that it hurts,
And, of course, it would be a poem.
But you’ve left me unable to write
And, as you can tell, this is not a poem.
So I’ll just hope that tonight, maybe, I might sleep.