Dear me. What do I make of this poem? By these standards, it's no wonder I am still single. Again, no idea when this was written, although I like to think it was around 1990-91, which would mean I had written it for a certain man-who-shall-remain-nameless, the only one I can think of who came close to loving me this way.
What gifts do lovers exchange?
Bodies entwine
but grow shapeless and old.
Lovers exchange that which never goes cold.
Roses of red
lose their scent, fade and dry.
Lovers exchange that which never should die.
Champagne and song
thrill the heart, then are gone.
Lovers exchange that which always lives on.
Jewels and gold
can cost more than they mean.
Lovers exchange that which means more, unseen.
These objects we give
on this path we are set
are treasured, and hoped for, and valued, and yet
lovers exchange
that which sets them apart.
Lovers exchange that which comes from the heart.
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