Because there should be more to us

It's not a thing of equals, but the books
all say love has to be, bold faced,
with CAPS and with EXCLAMATIONS!!

I want to write to them, to say: "This.
This is my life. It's different from you,
from your manuals." And I'd tell them,
clearly, cleanly, about you, and me,
me and you, how much I love you --
no, I'd show that. With videos of us,
friends testimonies, the poetry I wrote you
on the back of napkins, never shown.

After I would say: "There is nothing equal,
not in this." I would tell about your eyes.
About how I bare my soul, look into yours,
see only a mirror. I'd ask them what to do,
when I love more than you love in return.

We never talk about it, never bring it up.
I bring you more flowers (for no reason)
and love in in those little things, that when
you are not with me, I think of you
sometimes for no reason at all, but just
because you are you. And I think, I think
you worry about board meetings instead
and other mundane things. And I think
they should pale beside love, in poems,

but -- I am me, and not you, and you love me
not as I love you, and whenever you say
"I love you", it feels like a a favour, like
the giving of a gift, and not how the words
mean more than they mean, but I love you
too much to leave you, even if your fire
barely burns next to my own. The books,
the books I've read, then never said how
it was possible to love too much, not and
still have a normal love. I think, my love,
that they were all the loved, not the lover;
there is a book inside I could not write
without breaking my heart on your eyes.