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.