Love is not the scrawl of notes
left on the bedside, whilst
the alarm clock suffers to clouts
and rings, awakening her.
Neither is love the aperture
between silhouettes
as they embrace so readily
against the walls. Some clinch
of absence, the antiptosis
of the you and I.
Love is not the spaces between
the ‘I miss you’s’ and the
‘here we are once more’s.’
Neither is love the separation
between our wants and needs,
to the disparities in the world.
It is not the defiance of obligation,
nor some holy rest-house
to the ills of the modern world.
Love is not some shared novel,
a story born out over a communal
conjecture of where humanity shall
rest upon the end of everything.
Neither is love the offering of a rose,
or any other bouquet of severed
life, strangled for the nourishment
of her; the justification of your
placement in her life. These are just
condescending gestures,
weak offerings to the Lord
of all you claim to be divine.
Love is not a life to be feasted upon,
nor is it the self-satisfied glance
in the mirror, as you finally decide
on your definition of ‘I’.
Neither is love this malformation
of words, this attempt of veritas,
this hollowed pursuit of whiskey-fuelled
longing, longing, longing for
some great hand to deliver life
upon my doorstep, upon our’s.
Love is simply the eternal rite
of Gaia; the motes of existence
that tumble with great devotion
and all-cause to their eventual demise,
their inevitable return
to the spiral that created them.
Love is the spaces between my breath,
between your’s.
Those pockets of meditation,
and the realisation of union
between all that was,
and ever will be.
Love is the acknowledgement
of power between us. Our previous
lives, blades of grass wilting together
under the footfalls of the now-trees,
the now-governors of our lives.
Love is in the ‘I know you’s’
and the ‘what would I do
without you’s’ that we have so struggled
to forsake in the day-to-day
tumble of our lives.
And to this, I say, that love is
these spaces that you may
no longer occupy. The barren stretches
of grey matter that no being either
mortal or otherwise,
could ever reclaim.
Love is the birth of bespoke experience,
and the knowledge
that nothing can erase us
from the archives of
everything that should ever matter.
Love is us.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Love is not the scrawl of notes
left on the bedside, whilst
the alarm clock suffers to clouts
and rings, awakening her.
Neither is love the aperture
between silhouettes
as they embrace so readily
against the walls. Some clinch
of absence, the antiptosis
of the you and I.
Love is not the spaces between
the ‘I miss you’s’ and the
‘here we are once more’s.’
Neither is love the separation
between our wants and needs,
to the disparities in the world.
It is not the defiance of obligation,
nor some holy rest-house
to the ills of the modern world.
Love is not some shared novel,
a story born out over a communal
conjecture of where humanity shall
rest upon the end of everything.
Neither is love the offering of a rose,
or any other bouquet of severed
life, strangled for the nourishment
of her; the justification of your
placement in her life. These are just
condescending gestures,
weak offerings to the Lord
of all you claim to be divine.
Love is not a life to be feasted upon,
nor is it the self-satisfied glance
in the mirror, as you finally decide
on your definition of ‘I’.
Neither is love this malformation
of words, this attempt of veritas,
this hollowed pursuit of whiskey-fuelled
longing, longing, longing for
some great hand to deliver life
upon my doorstep, upon our’s.
Love is simply the eternal rite
of Gaia; the motes of existence
that tumble with great devotion
and all-cause to their eventual demise,
their inevitable return
to the spiral that created them.
Love is the spaces between my breath,
between your’s.
Those pockets of meditation,
and the realisation of union
between all that was,
and ever will be.
Love is the acknowledgement
of power between us. Our previous
lives, blades of grass wilting together
under the footfalls of the now-trees,
the now-governors of our lives.
Love is in the ‘I know you’s’
and the ‘what would I do
without you’s’ that we have so struggled
to forsake in the day-to-day
tumble of our lives.
And to this, I say, that love is
these spaces that you may
no longer occupy. The barren stretches
of grey matter that no being either
mortal or otherwise,
could ever reclaim.
Love is the birth of bespoke experience,
and the knowledge
that nothing can erase us
from the archives of
everything that should ever matter.
Love is us.
Request permission to use this poem