I arrive to the bar on Thursday night for writing group
And attempt to domesticate love words,
But they escape me like herds that
Have grown suspicious of the sight of me
As if I am a poacher in the wild.
I put pen to paper and write the image of us:
Our arms touching while we course towards the water
In a summer spent with no air conditioning,
Stuck together by salt and sweat and
Laments of falling out of love.
The charisma you found in me fails tonight.
I was never a beat,
But I always thought I could write about you.
There is simply nothing shocking to say about this.
I have always looked towards you for the next poem.
There's something about this loss that I cling onto.
Something about the literature it produces.
I have written multitudes before this.
Created several universes parallel to ours
In order to explore the ways in which you and I could become,
But I ask you to be braver in this one;
I ask you to be bolder in this one;
I ask you to be unabashedly honest in this one,
Because there is only you,
And the way I write about you.