literal

I will never write you
into a poem,
no matter how many
times I try

to curl
your yellow tresses
into wheat bending
in whispers of wind

to draw
your lips with wine
onto the brick walls
of infant cities

to translate
your laugh from memory
into a thousand bursting
bubbles collecting
on a kitchen floor

to turn the night
you ran sobbing,
hysterical and hyperventilating
from the car

down the side of the highway,
your stomach splitting with despair
your heart betrayed and bleeding
your hand over your mouth

into a moment of my own
great vulnerability,
my fall into the earthquake
confusion of fading love.

I will be here typing
in my room, coffee
overflowing, and you
will go on singing
across the city
unconscious of my efforts
to write you down.