I've tried to write this poem three times

the first poem came knocking at 7am
after a night of shared solitudes left me
speechless completely confused I was
in no mood to write, so I left the page
blank called in sick and slept

the second poem fell among russet leaves
blushingly camouflaged in warm words that
said nothing but insulated against
the cold vulnerability of truth a poem
suited to the season, but not you

the third time I tried to write this
poem I got scared that you would call me
a fool that I was mistaking coincidence for
significance I doubted my Self, and burned that
crumpled poem to ash

so I still have no poem to give you
unless you read my heart