The difficult thing about a love poem is that it doesn’t want to be one. You see! I’ve already let the meter go wherever it wants to roam, for the sake of fun, and to make my point. It’s sort of like the way our feet get tangled when we sleep, and we trip into each other’s dreams. Poetry can’t contain how gently you kissed me — even when I was sick. This type of love requires an honesty that poetry can’t express. A careful glance, chocolates, red wine and all the rest can’t capture the drunk-in-love ways we’ve danced — or the magic of long plants. But who’ll blame me for trying to count the ways that I adore you?