You asked me for a poem,
and I'm here to deliver,
but what will it mean,
if it's forced,
or broken?
Can I write for you,
as though I was a painter,
painting portraits on commission,
Maybe I'm an abstract artist and,
your nose isn't even on your face,
and your beautiful eyes are nowhere.
Am I hiding the best parts of you,
because I'm scared to lose you,
to somebody else?
Maybe I should stop,
with my selfishness,
and share you openly.
No.
You are my lovely secret,
and maybe my secret love.
There's an end coming,
a great wave of nothing,
but there's no saviour,
no upcoming heroic behaviour,
What becomes of us,
are we to be,
hollowed out,
left for dead?
Broken hearts from the future,
already sensing the end is near,
and who could blame them?
The reality breaks through,
and destroys the dream we've built,
and who are we to fight against it?
Nobody,
but it's time,
to be somebodies.
Andy Veilleux 
Ah…a love poem without the gushing…rather liked your approach to the task. Cheers!