The Writer Lacks

A draft of an older piece
painted a perfect portrait
of my feelings for you
but, in fact, predated you
by quite a few months.

I’d like to think
that some sort of artistic augury
had me listening to the universe
through my own words
and foretelling your existence in my world
but it’s much more likely
that I objectify all the ladies I like
and the way I write about each of you
is woefully the same.

I’d hate that to be the case
but it is almost certainly the case
that I cannot differentiate much
between the feelings
I have for you and her
or how I describe you
except by checking at the dates
or maybe the hairstyles.

Is it my lack as a writer
or my lack as man
that should most be moderated?
Or is the fact
that I failed to finish
that perfectly good poem about her
all those months ago?

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