What You Aren't, My Love

I cannot write about you, I've found.
directly, right on
as prime subject
my words just become mashed potatoes
peppered with artificial flavors.
How should it taste? What have I tasted before?
what clever concoction of salty langue
will entertain
my mouth: their minds?
(but flavors still limited to a conventional taste.)

I cannot represent you that way,
I cannot represent me that way.

You are that prose no poet knows
a color unreachable to human eye
a feeling inconceivable, even to the Divine.
intangible, my love
you
cannot be conceptualized.

Instead, you guide my writing, as sun guides growth
you live in my mind, to move my pen here
to write that subject
whose ideals go beyond you;
beyond Us.

you exist in the tiny creases,
between letters
between words
between meaning.

In that respect, I suppose I write about you every day.