If you were poetry
Then I don't exist,
And if I don't exist then
Neither did you and this
Is a lie.

We are only lovers,
The flesh of the lips
Tendered together for hopeful kisses
But not to be alive in
A melancholic grace of days.

And there is the other,
That which is the world
Of two lovers in the grinder's
Days together in this struggle.

And another which speaks silently
From the ears of a listener
And takes refuge in
Something else away from love.

And the other
Which is the word written,
So that you know you are not poetry,
Only the verse of words magnified
From a hopeful wound.