I refuse to write you a poem.

For I know I don't own the talent to do you justice.

I could never butcher you in ink
or crudely sculpt your image in words,

no,
you
deserve verses
carved in the ilk of Sappho
or Neruda,
you deserve a love poem.

But I am no love poet.

I never could distill beauty,
mine is a far too brutal art.

Love poetry is work for the surgeon and I carry only swords
my cuts are rough
I lack the subtle touch required
to sew a tapestry from your veins

so,
no.

I refuse to write you a poem.

But I need you to know
you were the earth that nurtured the roots of all my growth
the coal that stoked the furnace in my rib cage
a book of unturned pages
revelations
at every flick of my fingertip.

And I'm sorry
I finished reading you
before the end.