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Aphrodite

November 11, 2015

My vows will not be words. How could they be,
when words are man’s invention and my love
is something more? My vows will not be words.
My bond will not be flesh: no mingled blood
can claim a permanence beyond this earth.
My bond will not be flesh. How could it be?
My life will not be yours, for it is of this world,
but I will lay it down for you and wrap
my spirit over you until it’s all
my soul can offer you. Your life will not
be mine, for fire is of the gods and I
can only hope to warm myself by sight
(I do not fear: your colour only lifts
me higher than a man has right to rise).
Your life will not be mine; it will be more.
Our lives are shared; my life will not be yours.

This verse is not my love, for how can I
express an ocean with a teardrop? How
can I define a dictionary with
a single word? How can I summarize
the folds of time when all I know is here
and now and all I have are mortal eyes?

I love you. Is that not a poem enough?
In practice and at heart, is that not poem
enough?

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