Love poems never suited my face
My mouth was not made for a gentle embrace
So why is my mind restless and yearning
For a love that I’m simply too old to be learning
Where is the dark that plays on my mind?
My sinister treasures with no map to find?
Instead I am left with this strange little ache
It whispers, ‘please won’t you massage me awake’
But love poems never suited my prose
Unless there’s a tragedy from which they arose
So why am I tired of Shakespearean endings
As my mind is emptied of what once was descending?
Where is the grey that lit up my night?
The feeling of choking I never wanted to fight?
Why have you lit candles at the foot of my bed?
Are you mourning my passing? Am I finally dead?
I want to write love poems and mean every word
And whisper what I once thought could never be heard
I wonder if you will watch me by day and by night
As love steals my poetry and I surrender the fight
And you whisper that love poems light up my eyes
And you remove all the darkness that was once my disguise
And you take me and wake me and end all my dread
And tell me, ‘that’s why I lit candles at the foot of your bed’