I love you. How ambiguous. Surely I don’t
love every you whose eyes trace these
words (perhaps not even one)?
My page is blank. I love you. One. There is
one you I love – you. Just one who the page
invites and the words fit around, always. Still you’ll
keep your distance as you read and it’s remarkable that
I could tell you this – I love you – and still you’d
lie in the dark, assuming some nameless muse
my object, keeping yourself apart. I’m afraid that
if you realise, the lights of comprehension which wash
over you will be harsh, blaring ones of warning, not
a lens which clicks on and readjusts everything into
a richer, more perfect focus.
White space cries out. I love you. Listen:
You are always the spaces and always the words,
always the poem and always the verse.