Poetics

Poetics

I am not going to write a poem about you, even though you intrinsically
know how I feel about you, the way my skin burns at the slightest
touch, or how I can sleep in brittle cold with your lips against
the back of my neck, or how the Heavens move, pushing
past me like an exploding supernova.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because I dig
your stubborn nature, and sweet, generous heart you have disguised
as pure bravado, even though I see right through your words
and into silver shadow lands, into a melting heart that blazes,
past and present.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because yes, sixteen
years ago I knew then what I know now, and you’ve changed,
and so have I, and we are respectively more complete versions
of our incomplete selves, but somehow it is okay, and I am working
with all this jazz.

I am not going to write a poem about you, just because I lost you once
and I may lose you again, and I will take my licks and bruises,
and challenge you to find the best in imperfections, and just trust
that it can still fit imperfectly, if you just give it a chance, and breathe,
just breathe.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because I’ve moved
on and we are now the newer, older versions, maybe wiser, maybe not,
but it’s cool, and yes, did I mention the Heavens that moved,
your lips against my neck, and how my skin burns? Well, I guess
I did say that.

And I am not going to write a poem about you just because you know
I will anyway, and it makes me a little crazy, but it tickles me
that you have figured that part of me out, something others claim
I do, but haven’t yet, and probably never will, but they will believe
what they want anyway.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because your voice
is the last one I want to hear before I go to bed, just because
I get insecure too – two? – and you know I have your number,
and that I can call anytime I want, but I won’t do that since
I know I can already.

I am not going to write a poem about you just because I can,
and after all, I am a writer, and a storyteller, and well, you said
so yourself that I should just mention names and put it out there Javier,
so well, there I went and did all the very things I said I wouldn’t,
because I am incapable of lying to you.

I am not going to write a poem about you, because I just did.

(C) 2011 Michael W. Holland