A little over a year ago, I sat down alone in a hotel room in San Francisco and wrote a poem. A month or so later, I read it to Nick. I didn’t have a name for it, so I let him do the honors. So I guess we wrote it together.
I do not write poetry about you.
True. It’s been two years. And many
more, if you count the ones before
you wed me, then add the twenty more
before we met. Each step so coldly
calculated, life’s scientific method
overrules. A, thus B: we call this
destiny, for short. And all we ever
said, and all our logical dead ends,
have brought us to this static place,
just electrons drifting in an empty
space, barren of art. I remain your
perfect proof. Here, watch me force a
rhyming scheme and call this truth.