Good Luck

When I realize that I cannot write
That my thoughts no longer congeal on the page in a meaningful coherency
I know that you have stolen my spirit.
That I can no longer write poetry to the way you move;
No longer script lines over muscled arms
The finality of good luck shatters my resolve
Squeezing soundless tears from my eyes
As my throat constricts with the tears that I do not cry
The tears that you would never dry
For you did not know
That while you took a piece of me
with every encounter
You, without reciprocity,
Shattered my resolve with good luck.