To My Love

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  • Published: 5 Jul 2019
  • Updated: 5 Jul 2019
  • Status: Complete
A departure from the usual morbid stuff and possibly the only love poem I have written x

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1. To My Love

 

I will not compare you to a summer’s day,

For you are every season all at once.

 

You are the light-hearted spring,

The sun rising early in the mornings, and dawdling in the evenings.

You are the leap in my heart at the sight of new life,

The minute green shoots of hope and a clearing in the sky,

Pushing away my darkness with laughter.

 

You are the long break of summer,

Of sun kissed skin, radiant and glowing,

Bodies pressed together, entangled as one,

Hearts thumping in chests and pupils dilated.

You are the build-up and crescendo that spills into Autumn.

 

You are the nights drawing in,

Of wishing to linger in bed,

And never leave our cocoon.

You are hot chocolate and cinnamon,

Chapped lips and sneezes,

 

You are the quiet solitude of winter,

The glistening on trees,

And the shaking of knees.

You are my private meditation

And a quiet contemplation.  

 

Not every day is sweeter than honey.

There’s a catch in our throat

And we must wrap up warm.

With oversized jumpers and slippers to be worn.

 

Snuggles at night to keep out the chill,

Braving the elements with a sheer determined will.

Together we ride out the storms of the night,

Eagerly waiting for the dawning of light.

 

You put up with my phases,

My waxing and waning,

 Where the only constant is complaining.

You are the beauty and joy that I find in each season.

You are the dark and the light,

The wrong and the right.

 

Our love does not burn bright,

You are not a fleeting flame of passion,

And I will not cheapen us by spreading this lie.

Our love is a slow burn.

It is a hot water bottle and blanket,

A candle wick burning low.

Our love is for us, and for us alone.

We are not friends turned lovers,

We are equal parts both.

We are not fleeting or passing,

But constant.

A foundation upon which to build not a finished masterpiece,

But a constantly evolving life together.

A life that does not make sense to outsiders.

We are a peculiar people,

An acquired taste,

Difficult for others to swallow.

And yet…we are art.

For we are art in the eye of the beholder,

And that beholder is us.

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