The first can be the hardest and most stilted...

[jennlynn_green]

Why can't I write a poem for you?
After all the years you've earned one.
Yet I stand, abashed and rhymeless
in spite of the end and loving you longest.

Because I showed you my most ugly,
can I not now reveal some greater beauty?
You deserve, at least, a simple ode
for not flinching at the scary bits.

And praise indeed for the many nights and days
you held me, hand against the wound;
it's the old one, again, the one I think I hide
right here, behind my heart.

Its reopening has reminded me
of your perfect tenderness to that spot;
your desire a healing balm,
your acceptance a cool, white bandage.

This pain has me missing you.
Or missing the ghost-dream that I wove
which you draped over your good wool suit of illusion.
Yes, this pain has me missing you.

I'll press my palm against the flow.
Despite the urge to touch another
I dare not reach this bloodied hand
for fear my lonely fingers would pass right through them.

Why can't I write a poem for you?
After all the years you've earned one.