If I wrote a poem for you
would you swoon?
Is it just because I haven’t asked
or something more sinister?
Every time I ask myself the same question.
Sometimes I find the answers.
Other times I just hide under the bed.
I could never get my equations to add up.
There ought to be a simple
objective way to fall in love,
but it’s only transitive love
for the next eleven years.
Nostalgia will always be my sin.
It might be worthwhile to leave
just to dwell on the memories.
Now I ride with one taillight
and lean into every turn.
I’d like you there behind me,
holding on.
© 1999 Wayne Pitcher
