It's cliche to write a poem about a lover.

It's cliché to write a poem about a lover.
Every romantic is a poet, making love to paper with pen.
Her lips are soft and sculpted; his hands are gentle,
And his arms are strong.
Their eyes are windows to their souls.
A poet kisses collarbones and kitten-licks the inner sides of hips;
A lover's sides are made for caress.

It's futile to write a poem about a lover.
Writing is an extension of language, which is an extension of thought,
And a poem can never tell a lover exactly how
His hand on your ribcage makes you feel like an emaciated goddess,
Arched back, sprawled on soft linen with cocaine in one hand
And water dripping from the fingertips of the other; how
When she runs her finger down the center line of your chest
It feels like your abdomen is splitting in two,
Opening like a lily as day breaks to bare its glistening,
Dew-wetted organs to the sun.

It's cruel to write a poem about a lover.
On those lonely nights, years after you last spoke to her,
Your own words will rise from their cardboard graves and creep
Out of your closet to coil around your neck and
Bite the bridge of your nose, dripping venom into your tear ducts
As you demand that the silence surrounding you tell you why
She never loved you.
Six months later, that cute guy from the grocery down the street
Will be looking up at you with anticipation, and
You'll notice that the soft, vulnerable moan that you expected to
Hear when you gently bit his lip was missing
Because it belonged to the passion that brought you to
Your last love--your sincere love.

It's tedious to write a poem about a lover--
To elaborate upon the details of his visage when
You think that he has nice eyes,
To create the illusion of depth when her n*****s fascinate you:
It's that scar on his cheek, that freckle on her shoulder,
The way his sweat smells, the smallness of her wrists.
It's the mild acne on his back, the way that she
Hurts you a bit when her pelvis meets yours.
It's the sex and drugs and rock-and-roll and smoke and fire,
And the ashes.

It's selfish to write a poem about a lover--
Your possession will be marked in history books alongside your
Work which will detail all of the little things that you
Love in your so-called better half, without regard for
What the object of your affection thinks or feels.
Your lover; your partner; your boyfriend, girlfriend, baby;
Your interest; your passion; your inspiration--
Your good intentions which will all lead back to
You.

And, even after this,
It's impossible to not write a poem about a lover,
Because you love your lover with every muscle in your hand
And every chemical in your brain.