He sits alone on an unmade bed
trying to write love poems
about people who never existed.
The floor is littered
with crumpled thoughts,
sad little remnants of a grand idea
ripped from a notebook’s spine
in a fit of rage.
His fingers ache like his heart never could,
the pen gripped as one holds a dagger,
each page stabbed with emotion
until love finally bleeds out in blue ink
and he can write no more.
He gathers up the little paper ducklings
that float around his bed,
carefully smoothes their wrinkled wings
and cradles them with sadness
before he tucks them away in an unmarked box.
They will call to him again and again,
those precious sheets filled with inky blue love,
until the day when he pens a poem such as this:
a sad little remnant of a grand idea
kept in the dark for much too long.
Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved