The receiver

Try as I might,

I can’t write

you—it’s like

nailing sunlight

onto this white

page. I cannot,

for you are a dream

of yourself. You

who is my beginning

and my destination, even

my path is You.

This is Love.

But what is love? A silent

four-letter word,

when the music

of the entire language is You.

You see beyond me,

and into my possibilities.

But all my possibilities lead

to You.

For it was written that I

would love you,

that it’d be your destiny

to greet me. That You

would be my destiny,

and the rememberer's

will utter my poems

only because

I loved

You.

Try as I might,

I can’t write

you—it’s like

nailing sunlight

onto this white

page. I cannot.

But reading this here

it is clear:

You are the poem

writing me.

W. Amore