If I were to write you a poem
it would sound like the white
waters of a roaring spring river.

I would tell about the bruises
you got on your hands from
lovers who once squeezed too hard.

I would write about those unworthy
lovers, who tried to name you theirs
while not allowing you to do the same.

I would encase it in a golden metaphor
about your wild heart that despite everything
never once decided to stop beating.

I would praise you with my words because
words are that I have to give you,
even when my words are not enough.

And If I were to write you a poem
it would sound like the silence
left behind after you would read it.