What else is there to write of but our lovers and the moon?
Or the way my lashes catch a snowflake and the sway of your stomach fast asleep?
Words aren’t enough, or maybe the poets have written it all, and what’s left for me are dim phrases recycled – overripe iterations whispered in an exhale, too sweet and too syrupy and too hot for impact.
I recite these lines, an actor at the half-empty matinée, standing bullseyed beneath the light.
I write, they clap, I bow – I am the first of my kind.