I’m running out of metaphors.
In that sense, ‘metaphors’ is a metaphor
for your time, not mine.
And you’re running out of good years.
In that sense, ‘good years’ is a metaphor
for your options, also not mine.
I wanted to be the one to make you happy,
I wanted you to be the subject of my poetry.
But what else can a woman like me do?
I am a little girl in front of a man like you.
What gift do you get a guy
who seem to have it all?
Where do you take a man
who’s been everywhere?
What song can you sing
to someone who’s heard every sound?
What else can you give
to somebody who’s done it all?
What poem can I write for you,
that will make you want to choose me?
And what can you do to impress
a person who’s been with everyone?

Silence.
Nowhere.
Static.
Nothing.
Blank page.
Radio silence.