I was going to write a poem
about that night I was over
but I never got around to it.
So, here’s a poem about a poem
I never wrote about that night
I was over and we didn’t make
love but I wanted to.
I read you a story off my phone
because you asked if I would.
You fell asleep on my lap, stirred
when I said I had to go.
You were disoriented for a moment
but didn’t stop me from leaving.
I drove home excited, unaware.
Unaware that it was the last time
my voice would touch your voice,
the last time my breath would gather
together with your breath, the last
time our hearts would play together
in a room. Unaware that this poem
about a poem would be our last.
James Blevins 