I tried to write a poem
about your lips.
The way they curve, swell, and smash
like the waves on the Texas coast
we always talk about,
but haven't seen.

Or maybe about your eyes
that aren't just green
but a lively emerald
like the lily leaves
in the stained glass windows
of my church you won't go in.

Or maybe about your hands.
Rough, strong, and calloused
like mountains, yet,
run over me like a river
swirling and smooth
into the depths.

But somehow,
I can't bring myself
to write about any of those
because like the lead in this pencil
or your terrible memory,
all things fade away.