Poem

Truly, I could never write poetry with you.
So many nights have passed—
lost in the neglect of words and the indifference of the pen.
The fireflies kept waiting,
yet I auctioned off countless fireflies of my thoughts,
but still, I never found you
in any poem of love or longing.

Believe me, the fireflies of my thoughts
sink into quicksand again and again.
Through many dark, moonless nights, I waited,
but look—this emotionless city
will never let our poem be printed
in any anthology of verses.

It will find no place on the pages of a diary.
And so, even today, poetry lovers,
like the golden glow amidst the white of the gardenia,
have never found you and me together in the same poem.