This is not my poetry

I sat here for hours, penned this down with tears,
Each word.

But this poem, it's not mine.

Your shirts,
smelled of sweat and cigarette,
a tiny bit of aftershave.

Your eyes,
they wrinkled up
with every smile.

Scruffy jeans,
Starched shirt.

You are a corporeal mess,
but irresistible still.

The image and likeness of God.

But this is not my poetry.
Each syllable, each word,
It's not mine.

What paintings are to you,
That's what you are to me.
You are art.
And art,
Makes me feel things.
I write when I feel things.

Yet this poem is not mine.
This poem is not yours either.

But
You are this poem

This poem is you.

You are poetry.

(K.M)