I wrote this poem last week as a gift to my classmates in a class called community. Note: it is not about a specific person, but rather how all of paradoxically love and fear being loved.
This is not a love poem
This is not a love poem because you don’t believe in love
This is not a love poem
because I know you don’t want to be loved
At least, not by me
because I am not afraid to look into your eyes
If this were a love poem
Then love would be pouring out like holy water
from my mouth
Kissing your third eye
like a cross marked on your forehead
as you come to kneel
in the chapel of this poem
If this were a love poem
then it would feel like
invasion, it would feel
like when your mother would wake you
From sleep
after a long roadtrip in the car
If this were a love poem
maybe it would feel
like you first felt
When someone finally kissed you the way you longed to be kissed
and meant it
Maybe it would make you melt
Like the first time you ever went camping
and sat around the fire singing
your longing
and getting what you longed for
like smores Yes
like melting marshmellows and chocolate on graham crackers
in the middle of a long long winter
See
this is not a love poem
but if it were then you would know
How it felt for someone divine in their humanity
and busy as all hell
To take the time to learn
how to touch you exactly where and when and how
You long to be touched.
See if this were a love poem
then right now
It would be ringing and ringing and ring defiant
in its insistence
That you answer the fucking phone
If this were a love poem then for some it would sting
Like the back-handed smack of some god
across your face
demanding that you wake
Up and listen
And you in your insolent anger would turn your back
On her
because somewhere inside
you are so afraid that eventually
she will see you
As you really are
And stop
Loving you
But this is not a love poem so
you don’t have to worry about that No you don’t have to worry
about this poem reaching for you
In the dark of its loneliness
Or calling you by the name only your lovers know
Or putting its palm on your forehead when you don’t feel well
or making you chicken soup
Or trying to learn salsa to keep up with your footsteps
Or trying to carry you when you are too heavy for the world’s sidewalks
Or drawing you a map when you are lost
You don’t have to worry about any of that
Because this is not a love poem
But if this were a love poem
Then maybe here
When I only have a minute left
I would say to you:
Come. Come closer.
Here I can see the bruises
That love has left on your heart
The way in which you
Pull in
and away
and far from my reach
The reasons you are so afraid of me
Of this poem.
Of love.
Fret not. I will not pull you close. I promise.
But here is what I will do:
I will hold your heart in the palm of my hands.
I will not let anything that harms you harm you.
I will keep all things you find sacred sacred.
But this is just a poem.
All it can really do is confess:
I love you.
