I told her she was beautiful the living embodiment of my poetry, though
I could never make her into a poem, because the words that describe her escape my ink and scurry back into my heart.
I told her that “she” never spoke to me with such elegance, she never gave me poems about love and prosperity.. She spoke to me in rhymes and haikus about brokenness and betrayal.. 
I told her, love.. You are my muse.. And “she” is just a memory.