A Poem for You

I’ve wanted to write a poem about you for months

but I can’t bring myself to.

The moment the pen hits paper

the river of inspiration dries —

ink refuses to mar the page

for words would mar your Beauty,

your Kindness, your gentle Demeanor —

the river dries to protect your visage;

The blank page’s beauty is all you are.

I stare.

I want to write.

Words would mar your visage, I know, yet

if that’s what I want,

if I want to forget your sheer perfection,

what else can I do but write?

Scratching in dry dry words into the paper

imprinting you into the page

still empty yet creased, marked,

I cannot forget you.

The inspiration must run, but it does not.

Why does it not?

The world works to protect you, you whose divinity blinded my eyes,

and all I can do

is touch my pen to the paper and write empty words on an empty page about your empty self.