This is not a love poem

Unrequited love poem, playing on the words of the title.

 

This is not a love poem, because

If it were, you’d love me.

And this poem would be something

Other than just pretty words.

It would talk about how

We know each other so well and

How we never want to be apart.

And it would end with us,

In our bed,

Holding hands,

As the other one dies.

So,

This is not a love poem.

 

This is a poem, not love.

My words find the shelter here,

They could never know with you.

My thoughts

Splayed out

Like a pregnant frog

Still open from dissection

Left to dry out

In the air

And all this empty space.

This is a poem, not love.

 

Not this, love, a poem.

I do not want your touch

Just words

A poem

About your touch.

Just like a sunflower

Confronted with the sun

Would burst into flames

Regardless of their true feelings

For one another.

I

Turn my head

And grit my teeth

For want of you.

Not this, love, a poem.

 

Love this, not a poem.

Would that these words

Could find purchase

On your heart.

That this

Carefully argumented case

Might woo your stiff opposition

Into repose.

But my words

Though prettily recited

Will come to naught

In the end.

You have chosen.

Love this, not a poem.

 

This knot, poem, is love.

Stuck in my throat

And in my thoughts.

Tiny petals

Pink and rose white

The debris of affection

Piling up

Smashed into a soft

Uniform paste

Beneath my feet.

A dark lump

Unaffectionate and coarse

Surrounds your place

In my heart.

This knot, poem, is love.

 

Love, poem, this is not.

No warm resolution

Greets me here.

No sweet lips

Nor perfumed embrace

That would banish

This encroaching purgation

And dispel

The storm of sorrows

That lurks

Just over the hill.

There is no light now

Except the for longing

That flashes

From time to time

In the huge, nebulous breast

Of that storm.

Love, poem, this is not.

 

So

This is not a love poem.

The End

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