I think I told you the other day
that all my poems
were going to be about you
but
I’m pretty sure that was a lie.

I’ve been trying to compose
in your honor
to your image
about our past
but I find
it’s all unbearably lame.

I write about how beautiful you were
and it’s precious.
I write about how dumb I was
and it sounds mawkish and precious.
I write about how sorry I am that you’re gone
and it shows just how dumb I was.

My thoughts on you
are muddled
and messy.
They are not clever
nor artful
and are doing me no good.

Words
which have always served me
are failing me
so very badly.

Why is that?
Why are my poems for you
worth so little?

Perhaps
I can answer that question
through dance.