A little late

I wanted to write you a love poem,

but when the ink hit the page

the only things that bled out were cobwebs.

All I can write about is

the sleep you wore under your eyes,

how your hands wiped condensation from the mirror,

the tire tracks, the coffee stains,

the shape your mouth made against my skin.

These words don’t mean anything anymore.

Memories gone to dust,

pages left in the drawer.

I wanted to write you a love poem,

but the only motions my hands can make now

are elegies.