He’s trying to forget you,
it’s harder than he’d imagined
because he’d seen a future with you
as clearly as this view
of the city from across the bay
on a perfect spring day.

Low clouds, fog, and smog
had other plans and descended,
perhaps inevitably
but even the haze,
has no power of memory.

There are moments where he completely forgets.
He feels guilty when they pass
and cannot fathom why.
This is how it must be until things align.

Try as he wants,
He can only shake up the box.
The picture cannot possible assemble inside from the motion,
it’s for naught.

All the pain he holds, he treasures
just to know that their moment
was something that he can’t ever describe
in words alone
so they’ll understand.

The words alone can’t do the job.
The poet alone
failing at his craft
even shaking up the dictionary
can’t have the words fall into place,
it’s for naught.

He just can’t write today.
The creativity has been sucked away.