You've got the most astonishing
Buttermilk soft skin I've ever stroked.
You've got me melting away
As we lay
there on top
of the cool white sheets
Of your bed,
Exulting in the exotic sweetness of…
je ne sais quoi.
Yes sex… How better to start a poem?
My self diagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder
Is characterised by my neurotic repetition
Of those three little words
That consist of 3 massive concepts.
Tu dois me comprends…
I, me. Moi, myself, the most important
Person in my life for the past seventeen years.
The very first love of my life, the reason why my heart
Would thud with joy every time I turned to a mirror
Gracing its reflective surface with my heavenly visage…
Me- the very core of ME…
YOU, toi- yes you, that’s the third word,
No, this is not order, as if life ever is,
Or is there a certain degree of harmony in
Second person singular
(Excluding those other individuals in your head)
You, outside of ‘me’…
Yes, love. Do you know what love means,
What love truly means?
Love is when you would offer her your most precious gift
When you would auction your heart off to her for the price of a kiss,
When you would explicitly sacrifice your life
For without her what is life?
Love is when it ceases to be a sacrifice…
But a privilege to be the one to love her...
Love is when you not only want to tell her that you love…
But thank her for letting you do so.
Love is when a single poem that endeavours,
Struggles to describe such a feeling
as illustrated thus far…
Leaving the pitiable poet exhausted and exposed-
Scandalously caught red-handed in full flood and blaze
With a piece written
As a good poem never should be…
Guilty of emotion.