Good morning–ah, don’t lie.
The words have set themselves against me—
I cannot write of you
without fragments of old
loves and other’s songs clogg—
ing the verses. You are not
a ghost, a phrase of high
art by a dead man—you
are your own soul indep—
endent of me, my past,
these lines which only carry
meaning because of me.
They mean nothing without.And I want none of myself in this—
only you, stark, so that all might see
only you—a moment of pure bliss—
only you—my love—but no! No me.There is room in love for
I and you but not in
verse. In verse, can only
be you or only me.
One will surely crowd the
other out. But love is
you and me—how then shall
I write of you, of our
love? Can I with meager
skill hope to capture our love?Wild as dhole eyes, as your eyes stirring
quiet storms in my framework that ruin
all thoughts–how, then, can I hope to bring
the means to beauty in verses fashion?Too late I find the paths
I should have wandered down
and later still the moments
which might have bound you in
verse—or, at least, in
my bed.
The end is absolute rubbish. This started as a poem that I was writing for Jeremy for his birthday, but since I’m an awful person, I didn’t finish it in time. Now he’ll never get to read it, and I’ll never figure out if I could have captured our love in a poem. Posted here because it needs a lot of refinement before going on the site proper. Also, because I’m prone to silliness after a rough night and will likely absolutely detest this later.