I hate love poems,
like perusing recipes
never to be prepared,
betting on the trickle-down,
the catch becoming better
than the chase,
projections placed
like an accolade,
spectral thoughts passed
like contagion,
every failure that comes
at the end of success;
perhaps I am too sensitive.
But who would dare
commit you to words?
It is too much to commit
to the silence between us,
all the reasons
and excuses to avoid
an ageless tale;
experience creeping
in a slow flood of regret;
refusing your denial the ultimate
in self-defeat,
solitude’s gold standard?
I shut down like writer’s block;
any poem I could write you would wither
unread like a leaf turned to earth,
every word wasted on dumb hope,
cheapening the language that
fades when you’re in my zone;
fighting the instinct to seek
your heart,
breath,
sweat.
Published in Collected Poems, 2016
©2016, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books