i sat down today to write a poem about your hands.
to turn their rough texture into soft words.
and to find the shapes in your scars that dreamers find in clouds.
i sat down to write sonnets about the sunshine that your touch invokes even in the winter months.
yet as i wracked my brain for lovely rhyming couplets
to describe your feverish affect on me,
i realized that maybe,
as i sat down to write a poem about your hands,
that maybe i don't love you anymore.
because when i loved you, i never intended to write poetry about you.
you had planted yourself inside of the garden of my brain,
and my words were once the sunflowers that sprung from those seeds.
thank you, old love,
for even though i will no longer write about you without intention,
i will forever find inspiration in the sunflowers that we grew together.
