PoetryView
by Sam Pierstorff
Why I Don’t Write Love Poems
There’s always the concern
that you’re thinking more about her
than she is about you.
Before bed, her face brushes
across the dark canvas of your thoughts.
In the morning, she is reflected
in the chrome face of the toaster.
Her breasts appear in the spoonfuls of peanut butter
you now hesitate to spread across burnt rye.
You trip across the living room carpet
because she is stumbling through your mind.
You smell her vanilla perfume on the couch
where your arms curled her into sleep.
And your only hope was that she thought of you
just for a moment before she began
to snore.
