There are crumpled pages,
pieces of toilet paper,
stains of ink on the pillow,
fingertips on my wrists
filled with words I scribble when I'm in a rush,
in the toilet,
after the darts game,
in the backstage before the shoulback,
in my room when the others are coming
right before I fall asleep
and you have to know that I couldn't keep my tradition
one single poem for every boy I loved
in small letters
and the capital ones -
forming his name.
I didn't do this for you - I wasn't able to.
I even wrote one for the
First one -
and he didn't really deserve it.
the bottom line here is -
I want to write one poem
for every time you made my knees weak,
for every time I taste your name on my lips,
for all the hours I count until I see you again,
for your forest green eyes,
but the words won't come for fear I will fail
not you, but
I will never understand.