The taste of love is always green,
not tender like the leaves of spring
or strong like wind through summer pines.
but more the bitter bile you feel
in mirrored morning loneliness
when warmth has left, the rush has gone
when breath is cold and ice feels hot.
The smell of love is never red,
but brown as bloodstains on the sheets
that’s left to dry, a sacrifice
— a memory of broken trust
and love is not a shade of grey
and neither it is painted black.
The color of my love is blue
of yearning for forbidden fruit
of knowing what is gone is gone.
my love is stronger when it’s lost.
Is love a tender thing? Kerry asks with a quote of Shakespeare at toads which got me thinking about how love can be so mixed up with other feelings. I must say this got me thinking about how love can grow stronger when we mix it up with loss and nostalgia. I started out writing free verse but after a few lines I realized it came out as tetrameter blank verse. My apologies – it was not my intention to write in form at all.
February 13, 2015