Photos posted of faked postures,
faces
smirk-stretched with false fervour
and pained traces
of forced hauteur – what is your point?
Why bother?
Who is it you'd hoodwink?
Not your lover.
I need no bling to shriek that I am yours.
No lavish vows simpered before altars.
A pricey suit and product hair does not
impress,
I need a mate not a husbot.
In every sense, you are that man for, sure,
nurturing no pretence – affaire d'amour,
your words sincere and all your motives pure,
who could not help but love, desire, adore.
You are my complement,
you are my joy,
my kismet, my present,
my blue-eyed boy.
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...
