You used to ask me why I never wrote about you,
or for you.
I wrote about him,
poem after poem,
about his mouth
his hands,
his solitude.

I never wrote about you,
because I didn't have to,
you were there beside me,
held my hand when I felt
underground.
I notice,
words come easier
when no one is around.

So here's your poem,
thank you,
for staying by me,
thank you
for not giving me
words to write about.

But I've already
spoken word poems
to you sleepy head
every morning
when I tell you,
I love you
I really do.