There is no such art as a love poem to you, my love.
If poetry is distance and then immersion,
how can I distance myself from you to write of love?
No sooner could I paint the image of blindness,
No sooner could I sing a soundless aria.
Words cannot describe you
for you are in all my words
and were you torn from me, so
would all my sounds and scribbled shapes
lose meaning.
How can I speak of love to you,
when it is through you only that love reveals itself?
Without you, love is but a word
repeated so often that the meaning has fled it,
a nonsense sentiment syllable blurted by a mob.
Because I have seen your eyes wander,
because I have felt you kick and shudder in your sleep,
because the magnets of our minds made our lips echo each other,
because I have the scent of you to string together beads of memory,
I can understand love.
You are the window in the walls of my self,
and without you, the world vanishes.
