Say something clichéd like
those three overused words,
the crux of RomComs and
evocative drama movies,
detailing how Jack endured
it all — the fire and the crimson
droplets to find Jane, trudging
through snow and madness.
No one has ever said them to me
without a hint of hypocrisy:
an askew semblance of jade,
a bland simulacrum of the stuff
of poems and tears.
So, as I trace the contours of
your face, breathing in Autumn
with its orange sobriety and august
rush, the dance of nymphs and
rich woodlands, whisper those
words without a lopsided grin
or an inflection in your voice
suggesting something bitter
and malevolent. Hold me like
you’ve never held me before
and make me believe that I
knew you in a hundred incarnations
and will know you in a thousand more;
say what you need to say and mean it
and let this old heart fall in love
with you at that moment,
which stretches
to eternity, touching spheres outside
time, but held by it so fiercely
to realise that a second’s dash
taken in sincerity counts more
than all the quotidian chaos
of repeated phrases and kisses
given out of a sense of duty
to find a love that’s long lost.
Ordinary Person 
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