I Can’t Write A Love Poem

I would love to think

That the crumpled papers on my floor

Look like uncut diamonds.

But my fancy pretence

Doesn’t do you any justice.

I romanticise my failures,

While all my attempts end in

Blinding flashes of your infinity.

.

A poet’s tragedy

Is their shameful inability

To capture your endlessness.

I could compare your eyes

To warm emeralds,

Your voice to the tunes of Orpheus’s harp,

But all that would be just a sham,

A shallow illusion of poetry.

.

Poems can’t be penned down

About you —

They lie within your existence.

Poetry assumes Her own volume

In every hazy fragment of your

Movements.

.

Shakespeare wrote something

About ‘A Summer’s Day’,

While I wonder

If a thousand years

Is just a pebble

In your way.

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