Write Me a Poem
Write me a poem, you said,
Fill it with all those tragic might-have-beens,
That die, stillborn, on the breeze.
I don’t care if it lies,
Or wreaks of unhealthy sincerity,
I’ll forgive it its sneakiness.
Just gild it with a summer night’s loveliness,
Shape the words ‘til they drip with sweet sorrow,
And squeeze the sting from the memory of me.
Then, I’ll be free.
One day I will,
And then, and only then,
Will you be bound to me,
Like the strangled cry to the throat.
Probably I’ll write it when you’ve gone,
When your ghost is just a wisp of scent,
Clouding half forgotten words of love,
Fumbling to treasure a faded photograph.
Suppose, just let’s suppose,
I refuse to go, you said.
And bind you in the prison of our song.
That’s easy, I said.
You’d be the poem.
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