I will not write you a love poem.
It is a tedious process
and not worth the time.
My time would be better spent
describing the beauty of rose petals
or recounting conversations over cigarettes.
I would rather walk through a park
feeling the snow crunch beneath my feet
watching children wage war
with weapons
of compacted crystals.
I would much prefer to travel
to see the sights outside this city
to experience the people and places
that I would never get to
if I had written you a poem,
for writing a poem about
the infinite ways in which
I love you
would be a lifelong undertaking.
