Crushes and Fibromyalgia

You are- I think- and this is quite a presumption-
The reason for poetry’s invention.
How did the poet wax eloquent
On the matter of kissable smiles
Or dew-swept brows
Or curls to rival those of that very-anatomically-explicit statue of David
Which always finds its way into the textbooks
(Because there’s got to be an educational way to slip a penis in somewhere), 
Or eyes darker than the bitter coffee I drink here in New York
(I drink it black now; have you tasted the brew here? Sugar only makes it worse),
Without having ever looked upon your face?
And never having felt the instantaneous, and quite literal weakness
That settles in my limbs at your very presence
(You ought to know, the weakness comes and goes. The doctor, before just giving up again, as doctors often do, used to speculate that it might be fibromyalgia, or even  multiple sclerosis. I find it darkly funny that you seem to have a way of incurring those very symptoms which signify a major neurological malfunction.)

How, I ask, again, how
Could the poets put pen to paper
Before the muse was even born?
Each lyric, each line, each love-infused sonnet
That drips honey-sweet with adoration and love
Is now faded, pale, and  moth-balled
Archaic, didactic and uninspired
In the shadow of your smile.

This. This is why poetry was created.
So that I might have a medium
For expression and obsession.
God knew that I would need it
When I met you.