I had not remembered this, but in April last year I was writing a poem on my phone for the boy I then loved. I never finished the poem. I no longer have that love. Nor do I have, any longer, much pride in my skills as a poet—for years I have written only for my heart—so I think I will set that draft free.
Afterwards,
when all this is done,
all the fear and anxiety
and hunting, living
like a mouse in the cracks of
walls, all
that I will recall
is your smile, like a tearing
gash of sunshine through
these squalid skyscrapers.
That is all I wish to recall.
I wish to recall this spring,
cherry blossoms, the white
sand of beaches, your
half-bitten fingernails, the
torments of your youth, your
eyes like placid sea glass.
I wish to recall the promises
you’re too young to keep.
[That’s all I wrote. Float away from me in peace now, half-written poem.]
