She asked for a poem.
“When will you write one about me?”
In my head I know
that all of my writing is about her.
Or for her, even if tangentially.
I know because there is nothing
unique without her.
When I go to bed, I give her a goodnight.
When I wake up, a good morning.
Her face is the first thing of importance I see.
All of the poetry in the world would never
do her justice.
Beautiful words are only words
when love is eternity.