you wanted me to write you a poem. i couldn’t
because i couldn’t memorize the lines
of your face. it is too new. i wanted
to write about the bridge of your nose. your proud smirk.
the same number of years that have creased
your forehead. i wanted to disguise your ugly eyes
with some metaphor you would probably confuse
with the longing you have seen. your eyes are ugly
when they are swollen and you haven’t slept.
they don’t light up the way they do when you
are telling me stories about your father, or when you talk
about football practice. or the way they did when
i first told you i loved you. right now they look
like they are born out of the dark circles under them. i wanted
to write about you. i guess i just did.