She wonders why I don't write more often.
How can I explain to her that every poem empties me like a glass?
That I don't remember my dreams?
How can I tell her that each poem is a flower,
grown with care and worry,
destined to be plucked from it's bed when the time comes?
or that some will die there unattended?
How can I make her understand that I'm always writing,
even when I have no hands?
She thinks it's because she isn't beautiful
That my empty notebooks are a testament to her failure to inspire.
As if her sharp eyes haven't cut me!
As if I never thought of how the smooth heave of her bosom
is a perfect sound whispered into the ears of my eyes,
or how her tears run down her face
as if they know they don't belong there.
All I can manage to answer is that
in time, I will fill volumes,
cover countless pages,
and festoon every flat space in my world
with spirals and notes and books and journals and pads
all dedicated with measured slowness
to the great journey of she alone.