A Confession

I love you.

Such an admission should
not come without
forewarning, but
love is without reason.

Strange words, made stranger
by the fact that
I do not believe in
love. Or rather,
remain unconvinced there is
anything to believe in.

Love is?
A noun.
Knowledge that could
have spared generations of
poets, painters, writers
their artful melancholy.

But, somehow, I love you.

A novel, unremarkable
love that is both ordinary
and the very first of its kind.
A verbal statement that
qualifies as cliché
in any language:
Je t’aime;
Ich liebe dich;
and yet, is more original
every time it is spoken.
Word as emotion; emotion as
esoteric mystery.

Am I mistaken? Have I been
understood?
I am against, not the Crucified,
but the Projected,
as we strive
to out-love one another.

There is no way to end such a poem,
except with
lonely,
knowing

full-stop
.