Love was not made by poets.
Not by me,
not by you.
It does not arrive when called—
it comes when it pleases,
it undoes the voice, the body, the will.
You try to speak,
but the words dissolve.
You reach to touch,
but the gesture falls away.
You mean to stay—
but even closeness forgets how to remain.
Oh poets,
you who carry the ache in every line—
you may write of love,
but cannot make it.
Love was not made by poets.
Not by me,
not by you.
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