I am trying,
with all of the strength
I have left in this tired
body,

not to write about love.

I do everything in my power
not to immortalize love’s
shortcomings and
stained apologies. It’s
just your head resting
upon my chest, quiet and
subdued.

It’s your tongue wounding
my side, again—
your throat clearing
and my bad habits.

I didn’t want to print
another word about love
but I suppose I should
be grateful that
someday this pain will
be useful.