What’s broken here,
I think,
Is not my poetry
Nor my prose,
Not honesty
But rather courage and cowardice,
And the fine lines we draw
In the sand between them,
Nightly as the tide comes to wash away our work,
Yet daily we are left
Standing in the wrong –
Too far to the left,
Too much to the right,
Sometimes missing the mark entirely –
Me and my broken English,
You and your broken heart,
And both of us left here wondering,
Out of all the words
In all the languages
In all the world,
Why is it so hard to find the ones to say:
“I love you?”