valentine

I wrote love poems when I wasn’t in love.
I was yearning for it;
I look back on those poems
and know that the person who wrote them
didn’t know what they were talking about.
Granted, neither do I.

They wrote about making jewelry out of flowers and cigarettes,
about people they barely met
who made them forget about the misplaced love
and their fear of inevitable punishment
for their part in both their and the other’s pain.

They wrote about the death of love,
the loss of life,
the fiery pits of Hell.

They wrote about the people they yearned for,
the people they wanted, the people they needed.

Who do I yearn for?
Who do I want?
Who do I need?

Maybe everyone.
Maybe no one.

They wrote odes,
sonnets,
epics,
all about love,
and I realize it was for the love they lacked.

Do I lack love?
Who’s to say?

The kind of love they wrote about I’m still deficient in.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever find it.

I’m too hesitant
too cautious
but also too reckless—

Maybe I’ll write another love poem
about someone I barely know
and hope it sticks this time
because the person who wrote the others didn’t know what they were talking about.
Granted, neither do I.