I Wrote Her Something

but I never showed it to her.

I showed it to her friends

and they loved it and thought

it be to a great work of fiction

(it was a poem).

It wasn't fiction,

it was about her,

it was about the night

we went out together

to the heart of the city

in one of her old rooms

insulated from the world

by the darkness and drinks

that filled every inch of that space.

I still see her every now and

then but

the moment has passed

when it could have made

a difference

when it would have made

a difference

but that was then

and this is now.

Perhaps I'll see her

again soon someday

and tell her I have something

I'd like her to read.

What she'll say then

I don't know

but it won't matter.

The inspiration was the gift

the failure to act

was my own.