A Love Poem

It is a difficult time to be a cynic.

I deal in words turned on ends,
spoken with twisted mouths,
words that are as blunt as a club and sharp as a razor,
and these are not the words to describe this.

The words I need have been floating in scented pools,
the words I need shimmer like a hazy moon
the words I need are crafted of crystal and sugar
and I feel far too clumsy to weild them.

What awful luck of mine, to find love!
What am I supposed to create with this?
Hallmark cards?
Books with Fabio on the cover?

For here is all I know:
I am constantly, consistantly, cossumantly amazed
that somebody like her
would spend time
with somebody like me.

Here is all I know:
Things I normally find annoying,
in her, I find endearing.

Here is all I know:
I can know no pleasure
greater than hers.

Here is all I know:
Cupid's bow and arrow
has been replaced by a gatling gun
and I've been slaughtered with desire.

Here is all I know:
I am not prepared to use this.

I have worked my way through heartbreak
with tears and ice cream
secure that with pen and paper
I turn it into something good.

What can I do with this
Besides sit, googly eyed, wondering
what her favorite sort of flowers are,
besides picking out special songs for our mix tape,
besides generally being overemotional.

Yet, there is some small part of me,
down inside,
still cynical,
still askew no matter which way I cock my head
that is thinking,
"When this all falls apart,
when things come crashing down
when I am crushed and hurt
and writhin in pain...
that is gonna make a great poem."