There really aren't that many women in a poet's life
that are worth a line.
And most of those (either) are only sadness
trying to become something else.
Perhaps one, the first
or two, the last (not to be confused with
latest)
or maybe a third, a middle one,
like one which walks away with everything you are
and no matter how much you write about
love, or
Possibilities, memories, moonlight and shivers
You just can't get her right.

When all great lovers turn to stone
And things which never happened get truer
than things that did
and she's always walking away
and you realize you're too much of a poet
to be any good
at loving people right and not
losing them in words

and now you're just trying
to come up with lines
to keep for you the love
you had for just a little while
'cause you're too empty or afraid
not to live in ink.
Not to cage everything around you
In the accuracy of your words,
Making it sad & sweet
like you and your goddamned melancholy.

'till at last,
the statues that you've built
shatter to the plainness of a human being
and walk away from the scenes you've so skillfully
painted for them
'cause all we people know is how to move on
and words can't do that, words stay, they fix.

Then men of words just crumble
Like a house of cards. Leaving behind
The beautiful ruins
Of a love they could not live.