Why do you love me?
I don’t even love me.
The sunlight, with indecency,
Is touching these frail berries;
The dew is left
Upon the branch and grass —
The morning sun is smiling with
The promise that it carries;
But I am empty without you –
So much that had significance
Gets bent and twisted on the way,
Until we do not know ourselves
Or how we got to be here –
Your picture is across the room;
The you that was no longer is.
The me that loved no longer feels.
Am I still me
We all agree that love is great, but
Speak of it equivocally;
We charge the world to show more love
Unhinged, a little, in the main
Unsettled, largely, in the brain
Unpopular mid humankind
Unable to escape
If I could paint your picture with my words,
I’d show the warrior who tends the sheep:
I’d touch you like a feather on your back
And help you sink into a deeper sleep
If I could love you like I meant to do,
It wouldn’t solve your problems – yes, I know –
But maybe, for a moment, you’d feel warm —
And I would leave before you lose
[My moods tend to change rapidly – maybe yours do too? – Owen]