I can’t write poems about you.
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.