if i am the pen, she is the ink
if i am a lion, she is my fangs;
she hated my metaphors
how many different ways could i write what she meant to me?
i think she got sick of being compared to the moon
or how she moves my heart like waves crashing onto rocks
there are no more words in my tongue that i can use to describe what i feel for her
she sees it as a curse
i don’t know what metaphor i could write, to ask her to come back to me
instead of writing my next magnum opus, something that could grab the attention of even the sleepiest soul
i stare at this rectangular screen, looking at the last message i sent her
a poem, not my strongest work
a last ditch effort, that if she read it, she’d jump through the screen
i’d kiss her hands, and she wouldn’t see the strain of my fingers, with words etched on my fingertips
but instead it sits there, collecting dust
like some antique, in a shop where no words live (there's another metaphor)
i left her with this
if i am the poet, you will always be the words
i think she hated my work, so the fate i resigned to her, of being my muse
maybe there was no worser fate than this
my ego sits on my forearms, and my love resides on my back
hunched, writing, crying, feeling, seething
i like to say i’m a failed poet
the person i wrote for, doesn’t think about me anymore
now my work is hollow, a facsimile of my thoughts
incoherent , rambling
if you are still reading this
i cherish and love you truly, and i wish that i was able to capture even a fraction of your smile onto paper
i like to say i’m a failed poet, i’ve run out of thoughts now