Maybe this is my penance,
And if so, that’s fine,
I can write you poems
Until my ink runs dry
And my fingers break

I’ve many regrets, but chief among them
Is not writing you poetry sooner,
Sure, I sang to you,
Something I’ve not done with a soul since, 

But I wish I could have told you
How much you meant when it mattered,
When I wasn’t being strangled and tongue tied
With fear of being too open

You fell asleep in my arms to the sound of me reading books,
But I wish I could have written you lullabies,
So that instead you’d sleep
Wrapped in the warmth of my gentle hymns

It took this cataclysm for me to abandon my fears
And awaken a poet that had laid dormant for a lifetime
And I can at least thank you for that