Don't Write Love Poems

Don’t write love poems, she said.

They are flimsy. And cliche.

And boring of all the worst sorts.

Do you honestly believe the metaphors? 

Put together only to justify the dramatic in your head;

Do you believe those words have any meaning?

Don’t write love poems. 

The ink is evidence of the temporary,

The paper laden with smells ranging from the garlic used in their morning meal

To the scent of cheap soap from the store down the road.

Do you think something so trivial?

Can contain the true meaning of how you might feel?

Don’t write love poems.

Are you a childish, asinine fool?

Why leave traces of a weakness which might not last forever?

Why waste the warmth of a heart on an undeserving another?

Stupid. Stupid.

The only place left from here is to fall.

So why she was asked, why is she

A person who likes to spin little tales with words she herself doesn’t trust?

I’ve fallen, she says. And the void welcomed my foolishness with warmth.

And though she doesn’t say it out loud

She does think that love poems aren’t so bad after all.

But she would never say that, the stubborn woman.

So she says

Don’t write love poems, you fool.