Write me a poem, you said,

Fill it with all those tragic might-have-beens,

That die, stillborn, on the breeze.

xxxxx

I don’t care if it lies,

Or wreaks of unhealthy sincerity,

I’ll forgive it its sneakiness.

xxxxx

Just gild it with a summer night’s loveliness,

Shape the words ‘til they drip with sweet sorrow,

And squeeze the sting from the memory of me.

xxxxx

Then, I’ll be free.

xxxxx

One day I will,

And then, and only then,

Will you be bound to me,

And committed,

Like the strangled cry to the throat.

xxxxx

Probably I’ll write it when you’ve gone,

When your ghost is just a wisp of scent,

Clouding half forgotten words of love,

Fumbling to treasure a faded photograph.

xxxxx

Suppose, just let’s suppose,

I refuse to go, you said.

And bind you in the prison of our song.

xxxxx

That’s easy, I said.

Then,

You’d be the poem.