He is not a poem

“God, I am not a poem!” He says.
Oh, but you are.
The weight of your stare
adds layers, heavy,
and you resonate
fully charged and faulted
ready to be immortalised
in epic clarity.
You could never be rushed
but sculpted,
a clichéd chiselled Adonis
desperate to adorn my page
with satisfaction.
Who needs embellishment?
There is enough of you
to fulfil my need.
Enough of you to spread
your whole essence
on a blank page
to stain it with your disdain
and your reiteration,
“God, I am not a poem!”
I can almost inhale your scorn
like a deep, sharp, breath
outside on a cold night.
Biting at my teeth, bitter,
and creeping, slowly, down my chest
to blossom through my lungs,
swelling out to weave its way
down my veins,
and I tremble.
How can I stop? There is too much
too fast and too hard
but you, you are here
just dying for flawless completion
Poetry has nothing on you.