Sweet Futilities

Can a name contain you?
or a song, an unabashed poem?
perhaps a book?
I have failed

I have failed miserably to hold you in all of them
each one of them
but the glory in the futile attempts of holding you close
in the agony of those hurting sighs
and silences that linger on after playing our songs
in the emptiness of the womb after birthing a furtive poem
in the twinge of the paper cut that the last page of your book inflicts
onto my shameless naked finger
in all those explosions in me
shredding and stitching my being
aching and healing
when your name is seen or heard
no. I haven't uttered your name to myself
the vowels and consonants have not played their symphony on my tongue.
when will I ever call you out?
will I?
ever?