I guess

They say it's easy to write a poem on love
And easier still, on sorrow.
I know little enough of both,
But I know myself
well enough.
But if I can't write what I know,

I'll watch the white winter sunlight through the clouds,
And write you a seasonal poem.
I am only a seasonal
Poet, and Nature
Will forgive
My long term love affair with you.

She's good like that, doesn't make me feel guilty
When I don't call, doesn't mind that
I don't like bugs. (I hate how they're
cold, brittle, and small.)
I don't kill
them, and that's all she asks of me.

I cannot write a poem of love for you or
anyone else. How can I say
what I do not feel? I think I
forgot to tell you
my voice is
broken; it fell when we tried to

install it and no one wanted to get a
new one when we still had the chance.
Maybe we should have. I can't say
I love you, you see.
I might have
but it's so hard to know. I am

Sorry for cleaning the dust off your desk when
there was nothing left for me to
clean In my own room. Well, there were
those dark and dirty
corners of
my heart. I should have swept those first,
I guess.