“I write poetry but I am no poet,” I told her.
She was on the edge of her seat, listening,
As I unraveled one of the secrets of the universe
While we sat in that pavilion overlooking the city.

“Poets can transfigure the stars into brief
glances from the eye, and I can only imagine doing that.”

And it was true.

Last night, I slept on my rooftop waiting for something profound
To hit me. There was none. Something profound just wasn’t there
And it will never be, I concluded

She said that she didn’t believe me,
And that she thought I could be a poet if I wanted to.

I told her that poets can make people feel
What they feel, make people see the world through
Their eyes, and make people know that they love other people
Just through words

She said that I can
But when she read this, she did not realize that
It was her I was writing about,

And when I told her I loved her
She told me that she did not know what love meant.

I then sat back on the concrete wall
And watched a bird being electrified on a wet cable.





After a while,

She said she heard my heart break
But she did not know that it was only a wine glass
Being thrown over the moon and falling unto the cracks
That lined the beach where the asteroids land.

And there, I began to wonder.

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