i cannot tell you that i love you
as aphrodite loved adonis, for
we were not born of anger, and
when i touch your skin it does not
feel like blinding heat, it feels like
writing the first line of a poem,
like breathing in the sharp
(necessary. loving you feels necessary.)
and it’s not as though our love
measures itself in metal and blood
like that of paris and helena -
people will write no stories about it,
men will not go to war for it,
cities will not burn in our names.
we our not gods, and our love will
never be that of myth and legend:
temples shall not be built in our names,
we will build them ourselves
with soft laughter and heavy eyes.
we shall worship over hot toast and
daytime tv, the only mourning i wish
for us will be the sadness of
sliding out from morning-soft sheets
and our goodbyes will only ever mean
‘see you soon’.
we are human, and our love will be
ever more beautiful for it.