I couldn't tell you why the loveless are more likely to read love poems then those smitten with love.
It doesn't make sense. A man starving to death is not going to enjoy reading a cook book.
Yet, I, personally, do not read or write poems about love when I have it.
Coincidentally, I write about sadness when I feel sad.
The loneliest poet writes about loneliness.
And it is beautiful.

Being able to live in a cabin in the woods sounds wonderful.
I would grow a beard and I would drink pine tea.
Everyday I would go out and chop wood,
or fish or hunt or pick berries.
I would return to my cabin,
and my wife will be there.
She is beautiful and
earthly and we
love one
another.
She would stay at home and cook a nice homely dinner for us. She would read books and knit and paint and do whatever she wanted to. When I walk in the door I would kiss her cheek and tell
her that she is beautiful and I would mean it and she would believe it. Our house would
be warm in the winter and there would be an ice cold lake for the summer. We
would have a dog that has golden hair and doesn't need a leash he just
comes when we whistle and he would eat our leftovers and he
would be fat and lazy and he would make us laugh and
we loved him like a child and eventually we would
have a child but that isn't even on our minds
at this point. Everyday would be the same
but the would also bring us great
discovery and love and worth.
Eventually we will have
a baby boy and he
will look more like
his mother but
he'll still have
my blue
eyes.

Love.