When I opened the door to our flat
the home you'd built
and I'd burned
it was the first time I'd returned
since that wet Monday
when the scent that greeted me wasn't you

I could still make out Dior perfume
orange candles and
cranberry shampoo

but that sweat
that sweat wasn't sweet enough to be yours

I could spend
every penny I've accrued in my life
to
live one night
within the pattern
of your iris
I'd let eros
seize my mind 'til I was inspired
to play you like a violin
and by this I mean I need only pluck my own strings to make you sing
you see when
two violins are placed in the same room
one will assume the other one's tune
so let your music move over to the minor key
I want to
wade through the depths
of your symphony

I refuse to write you a poem.

For I know I don't own the talent to do you justice.

I could never butcher you in ink
or crudely sculpt your image in words,

no,
you
deserve verses
carved in the ilk of Sappho
or Neruda,
you deserve a love poem.

But I am no love poet.

I never could distill beauty,
mine is a far too brutal art.

Love poetry is work for the surgeon and I carry only swords
my cuts are rough
I lack the subtle touch required
to sew a tapestry from your veins

so,
no.

I refuse to write you a poem.

But I need you to know
you were the earth that nurtured the roots of all my growth
the coal that stoked the furnace in my rib cage
a book of unturned pages
revelations
at every flick of my fingertip.

And I'm sorry
I finished reading you
before the end.