I can’t write poems about you.

I’ve tried.

They all fail to capture anything real.

But you never were quite real.

You were more like the flutter of a curtain near an open window.

The graze of a falling leaf on my unsuspecting forearm.

The gnawing feeling that I forgot to do something important today.

I’ve tried, I’ve really tried to write you a poem.

But in the end, I find myself halted,

Frozen by the fleeting thought of you.