I wonder how you call my love for you –
probably collateral damage or,
if I’m lucky, you say you want it one day
for creative reclamation.
It has been about a bit, this love,
and torn apart, neglected, stored on ice,
and put in the attic for not being useful
but it is still around somewhere
if you want to do a bit of tinkering.
Still. Not for ever.
Maybe you can shape it in time
into a hopeful poem about resurrection
and other passion flowers to hold on to
when all is bleak and dry.
But then again you write fiction don’t you.
I wonder whether I shall live
to see my love reclaimed. Or even named.
And that you said you loved me:
it would be nice to see it
shining through the old parts of my rusty heart.