This Is Neither A Poem Nor A Song Poem by Persa Corbalokovic

I don’t want to write poems about him!
He left! Never to return. And I’m but a dim
Memory, another on pile, looking nicely prim.

Why would I write that he’s smart?
Nobody’s stupid today! For a start!
Or that he’s cute; almost EACH his part.

By no means, I will write about his mind,
That it’s quick and clear, rare to find.
Neither will I write that he can be so kind …

What about would I then possibly write?
Zilch! Maybe, only about a sleepless night,
Or about long tearful hours, that I might.

Or that I miss him a lot, more than I want,
I swear I wish I could say: oh, no, I don’t.
But, he’s my foolishness and my savant.

Still, that’s nothing concrete to touch.
Feeling a rock in the chest is not much.
Who writes poems on a stone as such?

So, this is neither a poem nor a song,
About how so, so much for him I long.
It’s important you don’t get me wrong!