The last poem I will ever write for you

This will be the last poem I will ever write
           for you;

           I promise.

And yes, I don’t know how long it would be,
           Or if it would fit in one piece;

How many pages, how many minutes it would take

           So it’s possible that I won’t memorize it immediately, but I promise,

This will be the last poem I will ever write
           for you.

           I swear,

Even if it takes me all night,

           I won’t sleep a wink;

I don’t care if it takes a million stanzas,

           But I can’t just let these words continue to live inside of me,

So I swear, this will be the last poem I will ever write

           for you.

I will start at the very beginning;

           At how you smiled at me and asked me where I lived.

You didn’t even mind the books that lay beside my bed,

           also asleep, and back then my only companions.

I will start at the very beginning,

           At how you held me when I told you I love you;
           At how we kissed and you said, “I treasure you,”

           And, the fool that I was,
I was elated because I hadn’t yet realized that

I didn’t want to be treasured.  

I don’t want to be treasured.

I am not an antique mirror that you’ve owned for years,

           that you only look at to remind yourself that you’re beautiful.

I don’t want to be treasured.

I am not your phone that you only take out of your pocket when you need a solution

to whatever your loss of connection

to your world that has become so vast to give you any more attention.

I don’t want to be treasured.

I am not some necklace that you only wear to upper-class occasions,

           in situations when you feel incomplete,

           to be put back inside a box when you go

           to bed at night, for fear that my embrace may suffocate you in your sleep,

           or to be put back in a box in a corner of your closet for fear that I might be stolen by others.

I don’t want to be treasured.

What I want is to be loved. What I need is to be loved.

           I need you to love me like your morning coffee:

Accepting the bitter and the sweet; needed for warmth but not tossed aside for growing cold.

           I need you to love me like your own desk:

Knowing by heart which does what; knowing by heart where something is tucked away,

           Knowing by heart my hidden blades, intent, filth, secrets.

           Blades. Intent. Filth. Secrets.

I need you to love me like your pillow at night:

           Your pillow that you embrace in the cold, you lean to in spite of the heat; and you whisper your secret dreams to.

I don’t want to be treasured; what I want is to be loved.

What I need is to be loved.

And I used to write just to make you love me.
So forgive me, but I will write until I’ve used up all the words that might possibly rhyme with your name.

Forgive me, but I will write for you to forgive me,

Because someone once told me
           that a person who does not forgive will never be able to write.

So my Love, this time —
           on this last time that I will write you a poem —

let’s make a pact:
           I will forgive you but you must forgive me, too.

Forgive me for crying
and I will forgive you for not shedding a tear.

Forgive me for chattering,
           and I will forgive you for not saying a word.

Forgive me for not leaving,
           and I will forgive you for not staying.

Forgive me for not forgetting you,
           and I will forgive you for not choosing me.
Love, let’s make a pact:
           I will forgive you but you must forgive me, too.

Forgive me for not letting go,
           and I will forgive you for not holding on;

Forgive me for not pulling away,
           and I will forgive you for not getting too close;

Forgive me for not giving up,
           and I will forgive you for not taking a chance;

And forgive me for not hating you,
           And I will forgive you for not loving me.

So my love, let’s make a pact:

I will forgive you but you must forgive me, too.
So I can at last finish this poem that has lived here too long.

           And forgive me if it ends up too lengthy,
           and if the words are too flowery, but I swear:

this is the last one. The last one. The last one.  The last one.

I will start again at the very beginning, at how you smiled at me and asked me where I lived.

I will start again at the very beginning, at how you smiled at me.

I will start again at the very beginning.

I will start again.

This is the last poem I will write for you — no, that’s not right.

This is the last poem I have written about you:
“I love you,
           and I have nothing left to give.”