not titled

a poem

there are not enough letters,
 in any alphabet,
 to distill the essence of you.

no vocalization
 can hope to capture
 your subtle complexity.

words are sounds providing meaning
 only to the ones who have learned
 to hold those meanings inside.

I tried to etch poetry
 imbued from the memory
 of your skin resting on mine.

in the end all I created
 was a trail of flaking blue ink
 scattering in the dank breeze.

fragile letters lifting sunward
 from the bleached carcasses of trees
 one faint fragment phoneme at a time.

rising high into the azure;
 trailing faint whispers
drifting
 into what is nameless.