You’ve told me a man must have everything.
He must have her love and affection, trust
and cares, woes and fantasies, body and belief.
He must contain and compel her dreams, speak
her mind with her, beside her and be her too.
He must have her body, entirely his own, as she
equally partakes of his, fully accessible any time.
He must give her solace and she his support.
They must build things and break things down,
together, working as a team, united as one.
There must be abundant love everlasting, you say,
and undying even beyond death and delivery.
John, you’ve claimed possession of her opinions,
her bodily secretions, and her style of clothing.
You’ve demanded her attention and hands, her
movements during the day and night, her arms
ever clasping yours, enveloping you enveloping her…
Dear John, my dearest of all, love can’t be swapped
and traded, quantified and qualified, bought and sold.
Love is no cure, can’t fill the gaps, cracks or ailments,
not those inherent or fostered in the care of those who
thought love was power and hurt and discipline and
control, John, mere control that fear spills through you.
Love is not for keeps, never on sale, bundled or peddled.
Especially, love is not had but kindled, like wood fires
warmth and sustenance, dazzling and mysterious, in
properties known and magical too. Love has no rules.
John, let me, if you will, teach you all I know about love.