I spent my evening
making a list of all the books
I have to complete,
all the books I started, never ended.
But as the tip of my pencil
scrubs itself feverishly on the paper,
the only thought that haunts my head
is yours, quite feverishly too.
Among the names of
Marquez, Rhys, Bukowski, Sartre, Orwell, Rand, Sexton, Hemmingway,
is not yours.
I admit that I cannot turn you into poetry.
I have tried
to string closely all the
metaphors and abstractions
that existed in my head,
to no avail.
I once asked you,
if you can be poetry and poet,
for poets cannot save us,
but poetry can.
I think I know
the gap between
Pygmalion and Galatea now
for you can be both:
the sculpture and the sculptor,
the one in the making and the one already made,
the one I couldn’t complete and the one I did.
I wrote this poem a few nights back, a night after I made a list of all the books I never finished writing. That action drove a domino effect and ended up with me appreciating my lover, for he is someone I did not just leave midway.
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