You used to tell me, halfway serious,
that I should take the measure of our years,
and write a book of them and love and us.
Remember that? I do, but it appears
that there was either nothing there at all
or else I lack the skill or memory
to dress in words events I should recall
as vivid reminiscences for me.

I wrote a dozen paragraphs, and learned
our story has no brass to cast in prose.
For just as you are empty, what concerned
us then was vanity, and all that shows
of our romance is just a hollow shell.
We never really had a tale to tell.