Between the Lines (A Valentine)

Don’t be impressed with these,

Mere words scrawled, hapless, here.

Between the lines, read not intent,

Of whispers pressed to ear.

A phrase, a blot of inky love,

Might stain your heart’s perception,

Unless, by reading, truth becomes

A broken man’s deception.

Oh, but know, dear friend

That pages can be torn!

Burned are books that mar the mind-

The author’s precious porn.

Careful, tread upon this soil:

My mind’s a misconception mine,

That you, though clever, cannot see

Or dare, defiant, to define.

To you I give the key, the pen,

To my poetic, pining soul,

But, wary, slip between these gates

Of my subversive goal.

Perchance, I’ll say, “I love you.”

And you’ll respond, “I too.”

But we are fools to believe it,

Fools who know what’s true. 

Turn, pivot, round the thought,

For never was it meant to live

Within our minds upon this page;

These words, not mine to give. 

Do not read between these lines,

Don’t over-think this cryptic thought

For nothing comes from nothing

And nothing’s what you’ve got.