When even good poetry cannot inspire you…
Reluctance
I don’t want to write
about loving you.
I don’t want to mention
flowers all dead,
chocolates either eaten or discarded.
I don’t want to write
about our first kiss
or the first time we made love
(I’d just have to make it up,
enough time has passed
to dim even those memories).
I don’t want to write
about your smile, your laugh,
your body taut like a bow string.
I don’t want to write
about the day you left
or the empty spaces in our bed.
I don’t want to write
about you.
I want to write selfishly:
I want to write about me.
But my pen, and my mind,
prefer your delicate
and absent
beauty.