I only write love poems when I'm not in love
when I can only just recall the weight of another's hand in mine
the ghost of a thumb tracing circles in my palm
moving up and down the side of each finger
the gentle squeeze, gone as soon as imagined.

I only write love poems when I'm not in love
when I can only just recall the feel of another's back against mine
pressing and shifting as we sleep
a roll, a stretch, and then
an arm lazily, gently wrapped around me
the firmness of bone pressing into my side.

I only write love poems when I'm not in love
when exact words of forgotten conversations are falsely filled in
and I fail to place what I had said and what I wish I had said
in the right spaces in time
I never say I love you quite right to the people who deserve it
because I lied so often to those who did not.

I only write love poems when I'm not in love
so this is not a love poem
because when I'm with you, there is no room
for the flowery imagery and spark of idealized romance
or the burning ember growing into a flame that fills me
with longing for another body.
There's only you and I and whatever sky
we comment on while I take in everything you are
and everything we could be
and I miss you before you are gone.