nonpoem

poetic love is so often violence

love is war, is agony

love tears you apart and you die for it and it’s worth it,

because it’s love

maybe I don’t want a poem

I would rather tea and biscuits

gentle words and late nights

I don’t want it to hurt

there are enough poems

about the way that this might end us

enough of regret, of misdirected hate

of our bodies ill-fitting and inescapable

enough of the stories where we succumb

in the end

to the picket fence dream

and the author claims a trophy

I like the one

where I have scars on my chest

when I tell you I love you

and you kiss me like nothing else but this

and we stay

just like that

for as long as we like

and there is no ending