I want you to know that you deserve no credit whatsoever for this poem.
You were not a muse. You were not inspiration.
You were a blank canvas I painted my love upon until it was beautiful.
I could buy more of you
for $7.99 at the art supply store,
or just order a stack from Prime.
Let me be clear: everything that was good about us was good because I made it good.
I became a magician and waved my wand and pulled you from nothingness out of my hat.
When you see a magic show, who could be so mistaken as to think the rabbit is the brains of that operation?
All along it was me who knew how to love so much.
It was me who knew how to make something beautiful ex nihilo,
me who saw your ordinariness and formed a picture of what it could become.