I’m trying to write a poem about you,
but everything I write sounds forced.
Not because I lack words
to express my feelings;
many sonnets relate that.
And not because I lack feelings;
they nearly drown me.
My poetry fails
because I am empty.
Since I’ve known
what it’s like to be with you,
every voice not yours is hollow
every presence not yours, empty
and my experiences, not yours, are meaningless.
The poem does not work
and my life no longer works
because I lack you.