There is nothing more painful in this world than realizing that the sadness which you are drowning in right now is irrevocably inconsolable.

The crushing sadness
Is trickling down my veins
And I am beyond saving
Even by my own brain
Which tries to make me happy
By recalling our best moments.

It makes me so much sadder.

And I try to move sleekly
As before
But the pain is fighting back
Making everything so trivially tedious and difficult and

sad

I am looking, teary eyed
At an origami Triceratops

There exists a brand of sadness
In watching you move

hot knife through butter

Twirling along the faint, wispy paths
Toeing the lines of my desire
Pulling me close to your mystery
Enclosing us in a cloud of intimacy

Then you smirk at me
And release me to the abyss

*hopelessness and confusion

I looked at you pleadingly
As you walked away

And I hoped

That you'd say
'No, that's not true
I'm going to stay'

Because I would prefer that

Over you, casting me a pleading glance
Over your shoulder.

Let me write you a poem
Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles
A poem that will eloquently tell
How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach
Figuratively
Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches
About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh
It will drown you in allusions,
In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives
That will tell
How you got caught in revolving doors
And how I laughed.
I hope you have seen the Spolarium
Because the poem will use it to denote
How I knew you were fine
But I never knew you'd be so huge
If you haven't,
We can see it together

The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda
They will call it God's gift to Poetry
Studied and deconstructed
For the next few centuries

It was found taped under a desk they will say
And they will scour the world to find
That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem

Let me write you that poem
So that when they find you
Only the greatest people on this planet
Will read it to you.

A bad poet
|                  Is
|                  one
|      Whose
| poems Are
|                  not
|              For
    anyone.

I owe you a poem.

From that moment, you asked me to stand up,
And we walked to the ice cream stand,
I've never written you a poem.

I am the worst poet in the world.

How do I find words to describe,
Your tantalizing eyes,
Or your secretive smile?

How can I put into verse,
That time we filmed your project?
We were laughing hard, then.

We talked until the wee hours of the morning.
You told me, 'We're so awesome!'
Are there words for that electric feel, in my veins?

I remember the time I held you, unwaveringly.
You were crying on my new shirt.
Then you kissed me, on my cheek.

You taught me to meld dreams and love together,
To be patient, and understanding.
I am a new breed of person, because of you.

All of the lost love, that lingers.
My heart misses you, terribly.
It is stupid to make poems out of this.

What I owe you is an apology.