I’d always known I never wrote a love poem to you, I didn’t think I needed to,
And now I’ve written two, though of course it’s probably too late.
Then that is the way love poems can arrive, when you least want them,
like junk mail will still be delivered after the apocalypse.
It used to be worse for the troubadour, when after a long journey, he sang
Love underneath castle walls, not knowing time had passed on,
looked down upon by the new Count, and a renewed Lady, his words no longer a poem,
Just a mere annoyance, or worse, he was to be summarily executed.
Now we have Facebook and texts, so no-one gets hurt.
It’s a simple delete, from memory, and there are always new urgent texts
So just reboot and carry on. Darling,
I’m buying the newest iPhone, what do you think?
I remember after 68, picking up a torn love letter from the ground,
Who wrote it and to whom had been ripped away,
Was it ever delivered, who tore it up? I don’t know,
Why was that love torn and tossed away, I try to understand.
I seem to remember only the good times, your smile, your eyes,
your passion, which proved to be your ever present lack of trust,
and when you beat me up, I thought we were in love.
Not so, you still lived by your past, you had to make me wanting you and lost.
Byron, Keats, and Shelley have always inhabited my soul,
So, I’m sorry you couldn’t give your life, to real danger,
And, it’s ones like us, who looking back can say, like Piaf,
we always live our heart, live life, no matter what the cost,
and can still truly kiss a stranger.