Cliches are that way for a reason,
and to its detriment love has lost meaning.
A poem isn’t anything anymore,
it’s just a few, hole-y lines of cheese.

So excuse me my demeanor.
I mean no one harm.
Just something was broken
in an unforeseeable war.

There is pausing,
and wavering,
insecurity and bitterness,
and jealousy.

Oh the jealousy.
The letters meant something once.
They were appreciated.
They were wanted.

They once created dreams.
Whimsical feelings,
warmth, trust, beauty, power.
They meant something.

They meant the time.
The time it took to write,
to feel, to grasp and mold,
into lines upon lines upon lines

that dared, dared to be cliched
and hokey, and silly, and bold.
Dared to push comfort zones
and raise heat those others couldn’t feel.

They dared to be what was needed,
and what wasn’t needed,
and they dared to be soft.
They dared.

They don’t deserve their lot now.
Undeserving of the laughter,
the ridicule, the scoffing,
the dismissal.

Undeserving, yet,
yet, beaten and tossed away.
Because it was decided, unwillingly,
love isn’t what love is anymore.