A poem (not about him)

I don’t write poems about him.

Or, not anymore. Not since his

Eyes ceased to be firecrackers

And became optic nerves in

His head. His voice stopped being

A song and now moves through the air

In particle waves. I don’t

Write poems about the way his

Hands remind me of my glasses

They snap the world into

A clarity I take for

Granted. I forget the verse

In Shakespeare’s love poem where he

Writes about farting in front

Of his lover. About  the

Lazy mornings savoring

The taste of last night. About

Leaving with the certainty

I’ll be back in a few days time.

I forget the poetry of

Doing the dishes together,

Of knowing his movements so well

That we dance around each other

In his tiny kitchen.

I don’t write poems about him.

But I haven’t stopped loving him.