“Sing of love, my dear”,
You beg and plead,
“For you write so sweet of melancholy,
Now, I must hear of the beauty in beauty itself,
So sing of love, sing of us, my dear”,
The thing you want you already know, my love,
Though you do know of the light but linger in shadows hesitantly,
You can know nothing of a flower until you see it wilting in winter’s frost,
There is evil in love, and there is beauty in evil,
I ask of you, my love, to think on it differently

Love is lonely, absent or dying,
“You sing not of love, but of sadness, my dear,
I want to know of its beauty”,
You misunderstand love, my love, for it is nothing without the dark,
For the stars only burn brighter,
When night sky is empty but for sparkles of infinite wonder,
It is not dark, cold or hollow. Such are all things, especially love,
It is in the having lost, to lose or the losing of a thing that makes it beautiful,
Not whispers in secret at a lover’s grave,
Nor the clinging to life of a lover to save from that handsome Hell

I can write about love if you wish, my love,
But I do not know it, as you want it,
It is the wrinkles of an aged face I awake to every morn until you’re gone,
The cloudy eyes of blue I stare into until they’re reluctantly closed,
For it is the flaws in the thing that make it beautiful,
It is not the kiss met with warm soft lips,
But lips of cold clay as the casket door is closed forevermore,
Not the perfumed hair that catches your face in the wind,
But that of your locks that persist to hide in our bed,
It is the thunderous pound of your heart fighting time and fate,
The gentle touch of your fingers until they finally unclasp mine,
You being mine and knowing you are taken from me again,
I being yours and you knowing you were stolen from me,
We being one another’s and knowing we will be whole once more,
That is love, my love
That is love

But I don’t know what that is,
Not yet