I cannot seem to find
the right words
and yet, I keep putting my hands
into the same empty pockets
and pulling them inside-out, groping
between the corner lint and the forgotten coins.
I know they are here
somewhere,
amongst the loneliness and heartache;
these perfect words exist
somewhere
to describe this feeling,
this life with you.
A friend once said, to be a poet,
you need nothing-
not even words;
that can’t be true
because I remain here
in this hollow grief
grasping at anything,
even clichés,
because I know they are here somewhere;
I just felt them a moment ago.
