on Writing

What shall I write to thee?
to you who makes me write, who makes me ache?
I could write a question mark
to summarize how you've left me
I could write an answer,
if only you had one to give.
But you never have, so I never will.
I could write a book, full of emotions & reason,
full of me, on the subject of us,
which I think there most certainly was,
though you never cared to admit as much
its pages would detail the ways in which
you & I made the happiest of we's
at least to me.
I could write a letter
whose love was given voice & eloquence,
only to seem the desperate, pleading wreck I just might be.
I could write a poem or a play
or a song, though I've not had much luck with the arts.
But upon reflection, & with much counsel,
I'll resign myself to writing an epigram -
to the love you killed & the us I can't keep.