Those Stubborn Words I Finally Let Go Of-- last stanza needs help

We lay on the floor,

limbs tangled, breaths synchronized.

I don't want to take care of myself,

I said, my chest heavy,

my throat straining to release

the words that cripple, and

the frightening truthfulness

behind them.

I want you to take care of me.

I know you don't, sweetheart;

you said--I think I could hear the longing in your

voice. 

I try to take care of you as much as I can.

And then I made myself silent.

Just last week, I wrote you a poem.

I dripped passion from every pore,

I sent my words to you for the first time.

Beautiful you called it, and you thanked me

for writing something so heartfelt for you.

And then you said you wished you could

write something like that for me.

The struggle to express that which had once seemed inexplicable comes easy to no one,

but the few who approach that beast head on

can at least say that they had no regrets about what was said, and wasn't said.

If I left you tomorrow, 

would you wish you had tried to write me that poem?

Would you wait as the words fell from your pen onto the page,

or would you still say I cannot?