There is poetic substance in every written word,
in every simple melody that you have ever heard.
A person can find meaning in the day, the dawn, the dark,
in whistling through a corridor or a picnic in a park.
There is depth in every cursory glance,
in every gentle kiss.
How could it be avoided
in a world that looks like this?
Sometimes I forget where I’ve left all the love
I’ve collected over the years.
I wake in a panic, desperate – thinking of all
the moments in which I could have let it go,
let it slip away unnoticed to be forgotten.
All of a sudden two little paws appear
kneading the fist I’ve clenched out of fear.
Two little eyes hidden in a soft furry face
peer up at me, expectant – love me?
Ah yes, there it is. Love.
You held the rope that rang the bell
on the day your shadow fell
from sun kissed pavement through the earth
to the core of what I’m worth.
Goosebumps are traversing the creases on my skin.
It is not because the wind has suddenly turned cold, but because you have.
Love isn’t the same
as cold fingers creeping
under the edge of your shirt
looking for warmth in a back alley behind a bar
half-smoked cigarettes dotting the ground
thrown down in the fog of smoke
when a craving for skin to skin contact
overpowers the lust for nicotine.
Love isn’t the same
as a body pressed against grimy brick
in the darkness
allowing foreign hands and tongues to explore
what once was sacred.
Love isn’t the same
as an empty bank account
overdrawn so a few more shots of vodka
could erase the taste of a stranger,
blur the image of them
into a watercolour painting in your mind
that looks more like the landscape
of your past
than like the face of a shadow
you’d stopped in the night to ask
“Will you love me?”
“Will you love me?”, you’d asked
with a kiss you’d try to rinse
from your memory
with mouthwash and tears
in the morning.
Love – it isn’t the same.
Just Little Green Buttons 