This you hold is the blank paper
which begs to be a love poem.
It needs iambs and abab schemes beautiful in imagery
of how you are Apollo and Adonis,
the morning and evening stars,
how your voice rumbles! how your arms crush!
So tender, so passionate, portraits of our embraces.
But this we hold is the feeble failure of trying.
You’re no smooth Adonis
No, Sunshine, you’re a laurel stalker
I’ve felt stronger throes
and heard your rumble voice rage.
There’s no tender in you,
no sweet Cupid or soft poem.
You’re angry Neptune, horny hairy Zeus.
So this paper will rot (like memory)
in our minds we will be pretty Adonis, loving Apollo
and I will pray to the Moon for protection from nostalgia hexes
and the pull of the page to idolize you.