I wrote a poem about love

and now I can’t even bear to look at it. 

You sit there asking what do we do? what do we do?

and I’ve no idea. I’ve no idea. 

We hold hands tightly. I stroke your thigh.

My poems don’t matter anymore. Nothing matters

except you. Except me with you. 

You with me. Damn the poems. 

We are the poems. The poems are us

and I can barely bear to look at them.

What good are these love poems

when you’re having a panic attack at 5am?

When you can barely breathe?

I wrote a poem about love

and now I can’t even bear to look at it. 

I’m too busy looking to bear it.

Joshua Seigal