I'm Searching

Listlessly, rabbits and squirrels
mill about me as if I am not there;
they have a point though, I'm not
sure if I'm here myself.

I'm sitting on the porch, searching
for the things, for the words I need
to say to you. I think of Babbitt on his
porch, staring at his gray world.

As the world moves about me I
sit straight as stone, pencil and paper
in hand, searching my mind for the
words I know I cannot find there;

is it the depths of our memory we
search when we know our minds
now are, for the moment, useless?
I put my pencil down to the paper,

and begin to write, hoping that
the act will give me the inspiration
I need to continue. I put it back down
in defeat; I couldn't even begin.

Words can't express this, it seems.
And it also seems that if they could,
they'd be useless to me. So I leave
upon my note for you the only

sentence, the only phrase that comes
into my mind, the core of the letter,
the brass tacks, what would have
been said anyway. The act is easy,

but doing it is so very hard. When I'm
done I look up and view my work and
find the solitary line that contains my
feelings: "I don't love you anymore;

I'm leaving."