Door slams shut.
I am not a poet
just as long as you aren't an artist.
I can't serenade you with flowery thoughts
I can't swallow the lump in my throat without spilling memories from my mouth. I cannot write poetry about you without spilling tears.
A cold chill strikes me.
You cannot paint to make me forget.
No painting, no sketch, no fragment of art can stop me from thinking about it. About you. A scenic view. A watercolored house. The things we wished for. Art only makes them permanent.
I cannot hide
Behind my smile when the words I write bear all. I cannot write words to woo you or win you back or make you remember
I am not a metaphor.
Or an allegory, Or a character, Or your muse. Not anymore.
You said it yourself.
You are not an artist. So how can I be a poet?