For Max

I didn’t write you many poems

and for that I’m sorry.

When we were together,

my muse was the city:

the subway sparkle,

buttered croissants,

how the buses skidded

to sudden halts.

You couldn’t compare to the rain,

and you never tried. You knew.

You let me scribble on about traffic,

how it never stopped,

even though you wished

I was sonneting your glasses.

It was never your fault.

I can’t write love poems

like I used to.

The magic abandoned my body.

It’s still love, just with great caution,

like how you mixed honey with tea.

But I will say this:

I loved your nose the most,

even if I’m writing too late.