my world had left me behind,
I was trying to write about
love, about sweet nothingness,
how I kissed her forehead, held
her in my arms and she, how she’d
bend from her waist upside down
totally prepared to fall, in time
we fell out of love and decided to
part ways, the signatures stabbed
the papers,
when I tried to write about what I
don’t have anymore, the poem,
with decrepit words, erring
metaphors, misplaced
modifiers suffocated me under
the ocean of choices; took me
in its arms, flew me to the zenith
of an infamous mountain of possibilities,
threw me off the cliff,
I was all over the place, neither swim,
nor fly throughout the requiem of
being with the senescent poem…
I missed the zing thing…
I could feel the smell of the words
bleeding through my knotty nerves.
I fell for love, dead, unheard, unread
