Sad Song

You ask me to write for you

a sad song, of

little things that simmer like summer heat, before

disappearing altogether.

Crumpled paper notes, or

old shirts slung over chairs,

shared like love letters.

I am skeptical.

You ask me to write you

a sad song of lost things;

the bittersweet, self-inflicted wounds

of midnight phone calls.

The stress of rearranging

two schedules, the

carelessness of time together.

Of how we look, now,

at each other, from either side of the bed,

and find we are seperated by something more

than distance.

I will not write you a sad song.

It is vulgar.

I will write, instead, a poem

of moments like bookmarks

and fond coffee stains

that darken well washed pillow cases.

Post-it note glances that speak

Volumes.

I will write a poem

of happy things.

And it will be enough.

It will make you cry.