The reasons I don’t write love poems.

A smile appears with all the light of the sun, it’s not you, but those olive-colored eyes paint a possible world that dies with a decisive: no, thanks.

The next seat on the train waits for you; you don’t arrive.

I keep an empty journal, where I’ll record the map of freckles on your back, constellations scattered in the firmament of your skin.

I’ll lose myself in your skin, in your scent, in the ease of giving me unique sunrises, your scent, like wet earth after the rain’s visit, a spring afternoon full of life.

When you read this, you’ll give me a hug filled with millions of “I’m here,” whispered to the wind.

Solitude, a reliable friend, I’ll miss it in every «I love you» you say before sleep, a melody that replaces the silence of the night.

Eros forgot my heart; his arrows no longer reach this poet tired of unfulfilled fantasies. Yet, I keep writing poems you’ll never read, mentioning a name I don’t know.

These are the reasons I don’t write love poems.