It’s not good for me
to read love poems on WdC.
None of them say
what I don’t say to you
In my inability
to explain how I feel.
Oh, it’s not for want of trying.
They’re just starting out
to attempt the thing,
to express the impossible,
to find the words that never were
for states of being ineffable.
Should I use Mr cummings and his
“i do not know what it is about you
that closes and opens”?
But even he is struggling,
unable to define anything.
You’d have me go to William,
yon bard of Avon and his sonnets,
but he’s not speaking the words
I need. He may define
romantic love but that was never us.
More like to compete we were
and comfortable from the first,
though comfort comes with time,
they say. The plain truth is
I do not know where I end
and you begin; we are so mixed
that I cannot say, “This is mine
and that is yours”. We were
always of one mind but that’s no help
when I need to say
what you are to me.
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