We Can Go

I want to write for her;
compose sonnets and ballads,
cover pages and fill volumes–
saturate libraries all in her name.
But she leaves me wordless,
stumbling over pen and paper.

she’s an enchanting writer’s block
(and if I can’t proceed because she is near,
do I even want to write further?)
I would give it all up for her
and lead a beggar’s life–
an extension of the life I already lead,
begging for her attention:
a quick glance with a smile attached
is all I need to stock
so many libraries.

Professors will teach the way
in which I describe her kiss,
students will gasp at the
loveliness of her eyes
reflected in my written word.
For now, however, they must be taught
nothing but a yearning
that will last throughout this
slow fade and slow drip of time
until she is ready to take my hand
and look me in the eye and say,
“Everything is okay now. We can go.”