Ah yes, the time has come again
dearest, to profess my “undying devotion”,
and yet as I stand here in front of you now,
I’m afraid I have nothing to give you
but my eyes.
This whole scene whispers softly
of the woman getting off the plane,
luggage in hand, the expectant fiance
coming forth not for the kiss –
but for the words.
Tell me you love me, oh,
tell me you do.
Tell me of the lonely nights
spent crying under the moon,
hopeless lover, tell how you are
nothing without me.
Would they still call it a love poem if
she bit her lip, unable to tell him
of tears, but of nights spent dancing
in Paris, drinking with strangers,
having adventures under the stars,
content never to ride a plane again?
I think it might be my favorite
love poem of all, actually –
here, at the end of it all,
her still getting off a plane
and into his arms.