I can't write the squinted vision of the splay of sun
through the tree outside the window.
I can't write the knowing of other women
when we kiss.
I can't write their mimicked movements
or their twin sorrow twining with our limbs.
I can't write the matte eggplant colored walls
and brass headboard set against,
the facade of greens cascading; rose candescence
lighting; the wispy romance.
I can't write the taste of your tongue
or the scent of your quiet.
I can't write what my memory knows or feels
or sees, what my marrow anticipates.
But I acknowledge presence and my soul
is soul of woman and so my soul is soul of poet.