We quarreled, argued, fought but she was unfair,
"Write me a poem then Shakespeare", she taunted.
Then threw pen and paper on the table as a challenge.
"C'mon Lover", she snarled trying to hurt me, "get busy."
I picked up the pen and tried to think of something to write.
I glanced at her and saw her victory already shining in her eyes.
"Try that thing you're always counting syllables over. Seventeen only.
You should have that crap down and ready by now."
No haiku would flow from my pen no matter how hard I pressed.
Realising for the first time that no one ever wins a quarrel, I paused.
I wrote for a moment, not needing verse or count or rhyme.
My poem for her was brief and cruel and compassionate and true.
I folded the paper and handed it to her. "You win", I said walking away.
On the paper I had written; I love you.