I see you
and tenderness buds,
unscales,
swells,
unpetals,
overwhelms,
I should
have predicted it,
should have expected it for didn't I first love
your verse,
that offering of chaliced self,
of you,
stripped bare.
Not
meant for me, of course,
more
pulsar wind, a nebular force, interstellar pulsating flux
but I felt that raw hurt
and great strength,
spectral channelling and a quivering emerged in me
a zeroing in.
You say I ran to you. No, Love,
I rocketed.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
