I have never written

I have never written

of love in any way that denoted happiness but rather perfect imperfections like the scars that being unloved brings,

The eyes that looked upon me never were so kind as to colour me

Mother of my children, inserting me in picturesque scenes with their crinkly eyes

I was the unnoticed, the cherished uncherished, always falling with no one to catch me

And so my love stories would go, down shallow valleys and up steep hills

The ascent of which left me breathless with no end in sight and each time I faltered I looked to them again with renewed energy

Romanticising that better such a death for the sake of it than loneliness

I have never written

of love unless tangled and marred by some sweet sacrifice,

A love ambiguous without shape of form like mist or a dense fog that suffocates but somehow looks beautiful in the distance

I imagine that the love that I had never written of begins as a stream in the heart that swells to a river that meets a lake that pours out into vast oceans with infinite horizons

So when you came, my pen dried, the pages blankly stared back at these novice eyes

And all poetry escaped the world,

 And those words that I used to wield came together simply to fall apart.

I laid my pen to rest, unceremoniously on some table in the house that we now shared to run after little feet that called to my heart

I have never written

Whatever my faults I never looked upon that face as if it were not mine, though at times I was unkind it was a rare exception, some days old habits left unchecked surfaced and I left words where they should not have been.

I am a broken whole, held together by the walls of our house and the promises of tomorrows I never knew to look for. This love that I have never written of demands no sacrifice, no nightly rites of tears, no fear of the dawn.

As this pen wanders the page, I hope to never write again because I have found this pen inadequate except for giving false memories an iridescent shimmer in the darkness of the night.

No more life can be given to life itself. No more death to death.

I have never written

Please, let me never write, of love again.