This pull to you, love,

something I can not explain:
my sweet delusion. 
 
I no longer fear
specificity: I name you,
write these words in blood—
 
haunting emptiness,
when every poem now is
written just to “you.”
 
This pathetic need
to make something from nothing
leads me through the lines,
 
but you never read
my words to understand them,
leaving me voiceless.
 
Forgive me for this 
intimacy now unearned;
I used to know you.
 
This pull to you, love,
remnant of what could have been:
my sweet delusion.