letting go of the sonnet

i have only so many lines, an elusive rhyme to tell you, what i am about to tell you, in this poem -

not a sonnet,
done in numbered days,
i cannot confine love,
in a page, but i love you,
even when i am silent,
i could write a page,
i could write a book,
or write nothing at all,
because love eludes me,
it wants to be the only word,
or the words mean nothing at all
you are too close to me,
in a way that can't be put
into fourteen lines,
you are the meaning
to my simple words,
without any rhyme of reason,
you are constant,
and just as free as the blank,
you fill in with your space