Tonight I can write volumes
On the torturous sensation of your breath against my cheek,
For it is by your own mistake that I have come
To this point on the racetrack, to this moment of overwhelming inspiration
When I have fallen to my knees in submission to my own pen,
For it was by your error that you ran your hand along my arm,
And kissed my face with the gentility of a whisper, or the feathers of a dove,
And stole the melted insides of my marshmallow heart,
Which blackens and crumbles over your bonfire and lets you devour it whole.
Oh, it was your own blunder to tease me with those lips,
Those eyes, those hands, that touch.
If you had not, I would not be here.
I would not be at your door, shaking my fists at your hidden face,
Shouting vulgarities to the reality of our relationship,
And spattering my pages with desperate verses of unfulfilled desires
And love—love that cannot be said in just the one word,
But love that has swelled my heart and burst it cruelly,
Spilling into empty volumes and loading them with the indescribable feeling.
I wring my hands and scream as frustration consumes me,
But I must allow my words this inevitable vagueness, or I will never be satisfied.
For no word, no play nor poem, could ever detail the sincere nature of love,
And so I should not try, for I will have no victory in the matter.
This is how you've damned me!
You have tormented me long enough, so I retreat, defeated, into seclusion,
Where tonight I can write volumes
On the torturous sensations that you teased me with until I broke.
But you have damned me! For though I sit, prepared with all my wits, to write
On the horrors and the wonders of the love I longed to feel from you, but never felt,
I simply cannot find the words.
My dominating pen so arrogantly thought it could take charge, tonight.
But here, with an aching head, and with my hand poised readily to rhyme for you,
Nothing happens. The stars do not even dare to rise
In the tranquility of this frozen moment. Nothing happens.
My words are stuck in my heart, trapped in my stiff muscles, unmoving,
Like little flies in the spider web of your mind games.
So tonight, I cannot write the volumes
That I thought would flow so simply.
Tonight, I fling my pen and tear my empty paper,
And allow this hollow moment of realization to cradle me to sleep.
When I awake, perhaps, I will have the strength again to write,
And maybe—just maybe—some small, fleeting words will occur to me,
So some half-baked phrases can finally struggle out of their confines
To express to you the inexpressible truth, at last.