Too honest to be made artful

Some time ago, a friend of mine asked me if I ever write love poems. It disturbed me a little to realise that most of my stuff doesn't read like one, even when they were intended to be about love. I suppose I have trouble writing 'love poems' because I have always felt that real love is too honest to be made artful. On the other hand it may be that my definition of love makes for poetry that does not give the sense of satiety that one would traditionally expect from, say, a praise poem. In any case, I thought I would try to take up his challenge, and this is what I came up with. Funny thing is, I still don't really feel that it will read like a love poem...probably more like disenfranchised lonely heart stuff. But I can't help it!! I can't kick the feeling that it's more important to turn difficult, ugly things into something beautiful than to defile that which is already gorgeous by trying to deconstruct its parts! Perhaps I'm only justifying a deficiency in my writing skills or life philosophy, but there it is. In that case, let this poem be a lesson to you all of what happens when you try to 'force' your inspiration. It can be an ugly sight. Anyway, without further ado...

THE ART OF LIVING WITH LONGING

I only remember my dreams
when I dream of you
I can sketch
every shadow of your face
from memory
In these quiet havens
of my unspoken heart
you still possess me

And this is how we touch:
like the fingertips
of Michaelangelo's Adam
meeting his maker
forever suspended
above the heads of searching souls
forever exhalted
beyond the flesh

I reflect on your madness
with childlike reverence
I marvel
at your immortal deviance
and even after all these years
the idea of you shocks me
engulfed in my remote admiration
never too near
to this fragile repose
more precious to me
than a thousand wishes
fulfilled
Leave me to my vain illusion
of who you are to me
because souls like ours
make beautiful ghosts