The History of Love

in the beginning there was nothing, barely a glance

and then there was light, in your eyes and mine

but our tools of love were ancient

sloppy kisses at the bus stop, beating hearts, fingers intertwined

meaningless words we flung at one another, we didn’t know what

it meant, we only knew it sounded nice

you would take me out in your car but never knew where to go,

in the cinema you slung your arm around me

and I can’t remember the name of any films we went to see

but do you remember that night,

we were crossing the stone bridge over the stream

you grabbed my hand, turned me around and said;

“hey, you look beautiful in the moonlight”

and when you asked me why I looked at you like that

it was because in my head I was thinking

s**t, maybe I love you.

when we kissed then it was like art,

like we had been sculpted out of marble to look

exactly like that and hey,

we looked beautiful in the moonlight, and our kisses

stopped being sloppy, we would dive and melt into my rose

gold bedsheets, we were the king and queen of our palace,

and all your words suddenly sounded like poetry.

our love was like a sonnet, with strong coffee in the morning

and weak tea at night

we listened to old bands on vinyl and took the train into the city

where you showed me everything that you thought was pretty.

we had summer nights when the sky turned pink, when we would talk and talk

and not sleep a wink.

but the first time we argued you tasted like smoke and vodka,

you didn’t say goodnight before you fell asleep and you weren’t

there when I woke up in the morning

then the first time you shouted at me, you put your hands on my face and

whispered a thousand times that you were sorry

but you didn’t kiss me that night.

and the first time I threw something, it was only an empty packet

of cigarettes, it barely reached your chest but

when it landed between your feet it was the first time I saw you

cry.

Then one day our words were ammo, you shot bullets from your lips

and I shot daggers from mine, we both fell to our knees and bled out on the kitchen floor.

we nearly died, there and then, but

you grabbed my hand, wrapped a coat around me and pulled me out the front door.

when we stood on the stone bridge over the stream

you didn’t look beautiful in the moonlight

you said

“hey, do we still love each other?”

and when you asked why I was crying I said;

“s**t, maybe we don’t”

 

and in the end, there was nothing.

 

 

 

Author's Note

ignore grammar problems