I wanted to write a poem

about something other than you.

So this isn't about you, 

thank you very much.

It's about the full moon,

a blank canvas colored gold,

my left eye.

It's even about your grandpa.

But it isn't about you.

I'll drown in my sleep if I don't pour

the rainstorm out of my brain.

My dreams should sail on calm water

in pink and yellow sailboats...

the sailboats I painted because of you.

And then I'll tell you about my dreams, 

and maybe you'll tell me about yours,

Only you probably won't.

There are many things you kept secret.

I can't stop listening to your songs.

They've lit a flame inside me

like heartburn.

Or they land on top of my chest

and I can't breathe for all the pressure.

such beauty makes me feel so lost.

Lost in the cadence that plays over and over,

lost in the unasked and unanswered questions,
lost in the unspoken truths that quickened my breath and rattled my voice, 

lost in the waiting for your next call.

I thought I heard my phone ringing,

but it was really the sound of my false hope.

I hoped a few fleeting hours would be
a few more hours, maybe.

I saw an adventure,
but I could only go alone.
I had read an abundance of beautiful words,
then saw them come to life.

But nothing that magical can be real.

I yearned to see the whole picture,
each color and shade and stroke,
But you were a puzzle,

and
I've never been good at puzzles.

I wanted to write a poem

about something other than you,

so this isn't about you.

It's about the transience of life,

accepting the truth, 

learning experiences and good stories to tell. 

It's even about me.

But it isn't about you.