Sunday, June 24, 2018

A poem for Iseult of the White Hands

True Love is no great thing 
It is more the wordless gift of a Diet Coke on your bedstand 
(Because I just thought you would want it later)
than it is an epic story of heartbreak and longing
It is the hypnagogic kiss, sleepily left on your shoulder, every night,
not an ecstasy of moonlight and song
Tristan had it wrong
Love is not a poison to consume 
It is white hands reaching to steady you
when you've forgotten to steady yourself
It is a thousand tiny moments 
the assuring presence 
of someone who would never 
leave you to hurt alone

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