The Day the Poetry Stopped

At fourteen you made me
Believe in true love. A chance meeting,
Bodies brush like the tide.

At fifteen I was left stranded,
Wondering if you could hear me
Or if I was silent. I couldn’t
Even remember what you looked like.

At sixteen you came back for me.
But I pushed you away like a rowing boat
Onto a lake. You were the boy
Who cried love.

At eighteen I thought I had forgotten.
But your face surfaced in a crowd
And I was down the rabbit hole again.

At nineteen you broke my heart
And the poetry flowed like crimson ribbons
Cascading from open palms. The pages
Were doves flying from my desk
Only to find themselves locked,
Quivering in a desk drawer.

At twenty-eight I fought against your arms
Until I was sobbing into your chest.
It was as if I was fourteen again and all
I ever wanted was standing in front of me,
Burdened with a small box.

At thirty I sit at the breakfast table
Idly examining the halo on my finger and smile.
There is nothing left to write about.