Love poem for Cindy who has never been written a real love poem

Listen, I haven't written anything decent in years, too, but not for lack of wanting – I've tried, you know, but always there is this pain that will not go away, always there is this pain, and always there is this something that's holding me back, although I do hope you understand, like you've understood why my last (first) attempts at writing for myself (for you) have fallen flat on their faces, rolling down semisteep Antipolo hillsides, cutting down and being cut by grass, prickly pears, the view – and so that you know, I never claimed to be a master at this craft and never put out any press releases saying that my poems deal with social-existential-profound stuff (profundity is overrated) since all I write (wrote) about is (was) love and never-ending young love sweet love. See me stumble. But I hope you understand – I don't know what to say, although I'm doing a good job hiding it here, with words and a myriad words, white space maybe, testimonials and suppositions, more grass, more thorns, more of the view, maybe more Tom Waits covers you sang to me in a taxi dream (dream taxi) taking you (us) home, wishing for rain to drum on the rooftop en punto, not the cheap synthesizer-type raindrop snare, but a real one from real La Niña rain with us inside your place, playing scrabble with our hearts, trying not to look for deeper meaning in the tiles but still managing to find it. Love is rock and roll.