I guess I have to write you a sonnet.
After all, that's what I said I would do.
I could just get one from the internet,
but I want this to be special for you.
There's a place and a time for the bullshit;
the crap Shakespeare and Brontë called "in love".
But love isn't blind, nor does it submit
to brutish men who aren't afraid to shove.
Love is nothing else than coincidence;
to happen to look up at the same time,
laugh at the same shows of belligerence,
and appreciate ancient fixed-form rhyme.
So as this sonnet now comes to a close,
know that I love you in poems and prose.