Je serai poète et toi, la poésie.*
I will be the poet and you, the poetry.

But it is not the words
That I scribbled out in arduous hand,
The slopes of my letters,
That quite encompass
The ***** of you leaning against
The pane of my window in the rains.

Nor is it the soft cursive
In which I gently wrote down
Your expression when a flake of snow
Soft and tender;
Rustling through the branches of fir
To land on your nose,
Ever so gently;
That can quite tell the world
What your clear laughter does
To an hour of gloom.

I knew then,
That my mind, with its fractured
Concepts disjoint syllables and tripping verse might not be capable
Of putting pen to paper
And recall your fiery eyes,
When they pierce the veil of
Young melancholy
And beckon me to act my age,
And not a morbid royal spinster.

And I thought of how you knew
In far more precise details how
After a weary day, I flopped down
On to the couch in monotonous exhaustion
Wiping my brow, shaking off the
Metaphorical dust.
You knew, far better than me,
The blurred movements of my hands
As I traced words in the air.

I watched you watch me
Move and I watched as you noted
The crest of every breath I took.

And I thought.

Tu sera poète et moi, la poésie.
You will be the poet and I, the poetry.