I would rather
write about the colours of early spring,
than to rack my brain
about the exact shades and swirls
of your eyes.
I would rather
describe the softness of fur
against my fingertips,
than to miss the silken touch
of your hair.
I would rather
wonder about the stars in poems,
than to search for nonexistent love
between the lines.
I would rather cherish the moment,
than to wonder
what could have been.