Carriage Return

I can imagine you
(the nebulous, not-yet-found you
of love poem fame).

I can imagine you
asking me someday
what makes you different from
all the other women in the world.

And in response,
I will not say
“You are pretty
and you are smart,
and you’ve got so much (so much) heart.”

No.

While I’m up for it,
I’ll cajole what poetic soul I have left
to give me a poem to tell you
that lists your quirks and your beauties,
everything you are best at,
and all the tiny details you thought I would miss.

Like a shopping list,
but prettier.

Then you will smile to yourself as you hear my poem,
while I pause and realize
that this is not at all why.

You would not want me to love
for the reasons I will list.
And I would not love
for the reasons I will list.

(Imagine someone
good in every way you are not
and better in every way you are good.

What would my poetic soul do?
And what would I do?)

No.

You are special because you are,
and I will love you because I love
(the nebulous, not-yet-found love
of love poem fame).