Often I am frustrated by the form,
for love poems are best written by young poets
when love is young and fresh and still unknown
and the lines uncompromised by prior kisses
caresses and broken promises.

And yet, what asses we poets are — we
who pen eternal devotion are like any
other — full of folly, subject to change,
enslaved to a promiscuous heart. This, surely,
you must know, though you might deny it.

I can give you no reasons for love, nor
do I feel I should. I did not intend to write
this love poem as a love poem, nor
describe this love in any fashion — only this:
to open your eyes as to why I write.

I write out of hunger.
 
To tell you
   of this
           love.