The end of a love is appalling to the mind.
It is like hell, the bind
Of loving still—and yet to her I seem unkind.
My love still sees, but now to me she’s blind.
Were I a different man
I would go to her again with the same plan,
To invent love to love her every day,
But all my inventions would, as fate decrees, frighten her away,
Because only love will be loved.
Wanting, yet fearing, love’s end, she saw me loving at love’s end, and shoved.
She was naked. She knew my smile and touch.
Too vulnerable. Only love will be loved too much.
Because only love knows love.
Each and every thing that’s nice makes sex seem bad.
She was the best the eyes which belonged to me had ever had,
But eyes are everywhere, and the eyes belonging to me are sad
Because only love will be loved,
And love, because it is love, doesn’t need
Love—especially the love focused in narrow motive and need,
Putting her on that narrow bed for an hour, to weep and feed.
Love is a child, Shakespeare said.
The day I discovered the child was dead,
I knew day would drink my blood and night would eat my bread.
The end of a love is appalling to the mind.
To find that every kindness only seems unkind.