he still writes love poems

though the love is gone
though she no longer
wants them
he still writes love poems
he shows them
to no one but her

he writes small ones
with his finger in a pool
of bourbon
he writes long ones
as though there were
some fever in him
most of them are bad
some are not

the good ones celebrate
the good ones remember

the rest die on the
page like coffee stains
fly into self-pity
grovel cry beg
bruise themselves
with longing

none of them contain
any answers
none of them have
the power to change
and none have
any future
in them

he still writes love poems
her silken hair
her searing lips
her arms and legs
wrapped so tightly
around he was so
certain they'd never
let go