I can’t write a poem about love. Love isn’t poetry.
You don’t find love washed up on the Seine or hung like branches from the Eiffel tower.
The love the poets know won’t float through the air, touch your forehead like a leaf…it hides in refugee camps and food banks.
Love puts on a jacket, walks past the night clubs of Sauchiehall street, finds you, kneels down beside you and says “you’re worth more than this, you’re worth more than this”.
And if he can’t see it he has nothing.
And if he speaks in tongues of men and angels but has not love-
Be quiet, Aphrodite whispers. Don’t tell the prophets.
Love is an offering, emptied of everything, heaven made humble. God wept, the deity bled, our rejection held in like nails He wouldn’t let go. When we were never so far, He was never so close. When love was summed up in three words the second was forgive.
Don’t give her your love, give her that love.
Don’t give him what he deserves, he’s worth more than he deserves.
Take this vow and make it real. Fill this ring with promises, hard and true.
Like I promise I won’t fail you…and pick me up when I fail you.
Like I mean it when I say I love you and I mean it when you say it too.
I can’t write a poem about love. Because poems end. Because words and knowledge pass away.
But love stands.