Were I a poet

Were I a poet
of old
in the day of Keats
I could write you the most wondrous ode
and everyone who read it would pause
hand on heart
And say
I wish
I had
been loved like that.
But I am not.
So I will not.

Were I a musician
of old
in the times of Bach
I would make you a tune of such beauty
nightingales would burn with envy.
But I am not.
So I will not.

Were I an artist
of old
with the passion and creativity of Kahlo
I would paint you a portrait
so fine
That I could press my lips to it
and half believe it was you.
But I am not.
So I will not.

All I have are these clumsy words
faltering sentences
and these hands that lay you to sleep
Calm you when you wake in the night
Love you when you hold me tight.

All I have is this.
that I have always loved you.
that I am yours.

And I am.
And I will.