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I’ve never written you a poem. You don’t lend yourself to words, you see; You’re too strong, an oak To the little willow tree I am And I don’t know how to write a poem For a silent, seething mountain, A girl who could go volcano And fly in a fury to send vengeance Upon those who dare upset Her scattered equilibrium. No one writes poems for the lioness, Headstrong and stubborn And already too proud For calming words and coming into being. You’re the protector, the badass, the ‘I’ll drop kick you across the whole city If you mess with my sister,’ Who can still be a warrior While wearing a dress. I can’t be eloquent about A lightsaber fighting spitfire, Grumpy in the mornings And spouting sass all afternoon. It’s too hard; my poems are supposed To be soft and gentle but you Have always been powerful, Serious and stoic Until suddenly you say something To get us all laughing. And my poetry, too, is about eloquence But you and I don’t often talk with words, We speak with expressions and thoughts and hands, With random inside jokes and stories. That’s why I’ve never written you a poem before, Because you’re more important to me Than any words I know.