I love you, but not in the way that poets mention.
It’s a love with mostly beautiful parts—
those which beautiful words
could do their best to validate and describe.

But there are other parts,
like
the hot, jealous breath on my neck,
heavy and hanging over me—
a howling black cloud
patiently waiting to
rip,
pour,
warp,
and
ruin.

Other parts,
like
the craggy barbed wire ribs you wear—
the ones I take in when I wrap myself around you.
Who these are meant to protect
remains unclear.

Other parts,
like
the guilt I foster when we touch
while you remind me in a soft whisper
that you’re not mine to keep.
I face the bare wall and hesitate to accept
that to touch is simply to use,
and to use is so far from to love.

I love you, just not in the way that poets mention—
in that rigid crack between the brick and mortar—
in a narrow place where even the loudest secrets dare not echo.
I love you in that stretch of light between heel and shadow—
in the space that implies
but does not define
connection.

I love you, but not in a way that poets mention.
I love you in the silent incomplete—
the only way you’ll allow.

I love you alone.