A poetry student told me
I should get back to writing,
and there’s no metaphor
in that anecdote.
So as January strangles my space heaters,
I numbly miss keys retyping my handwriting,
probably something along the lines of
infatuation
or despise
or learning my mistake from the last girl
or, and let me pause, death.
I am twenty-four.
But maybe I find an atypical remark,
like how the girl and I met
because I starting courting her girlfriend,
how someone might only tell us apart by our sexes
since I’ve already given her my name,
but nonetheless, I have to mention those fucking green eyes
brighter than the green I’m accustomed
because I know you’ve been there before.
My voice cannot be contained in conversation.
3 million words still cannot bridge my understanding.
I guess I’ll try again in the next poem.
