I write love poems

because I’m selfish.

I give you flesh

in broken words and phrases

and so

in the white spaces

I might possess you.

Yours is too far

to touch.

I capture you between words and sentences

laying you down

in lines.




I place a comma

so that you might breathe

and come to life

for me.

I place a full-stop,

now here, now there,

almost carelessly,

so that you might cease

and listen

to me.

I give you thoughts

and words from words from thoughts

so that you might agree.




I give you a face

in a verse.

Perhaps I make you smile,

or perhaps I flood you

in a trail of letters

swimming down your cheek

to believe,

they are yours to give.




(But if I dare be honest,

they are only mine.)




Two symmetrical phrases

slide down to become hands

as I caress them

under the sharpness of my pen;

they come alive

in slow dancing movements

to form an embrace

in a complete sentence.




I wish to give you wings.

But then,

I’d better not.




I write love poems

because I’m selfish.

so that I might possess you

and grant you the gift of eternity.

But I see within the folds

of my pages

you will be lost one day,

to be smudged

burnt or buried.

You too!

You intangible one.




And yet I,

with this foolish innocence

have sat down to

conjure lifeless words,

sentences, verses between

commas and full-stops

to resurrect you;

so that I can play God

and grant you justice

for your indifference

and hate.




I write love poems

so that you might love

me.