A Sort of Love Song

Love is the most difficult of all human things.

If I say “I love you”,
that is not the end of it.
It is merely the beginning
of the beginning.
Those words are not a 
culmination, but a 
promissory note, 
the first step on a long path.
They’re a promise
to work on the promise,
with no firm destination
guaranteed. 

Do not say “I love you”,
and expect hosts to break out
in Jubilate. Many say
the words; few grasp
their dread meaning.
They mean that I, a human,
take you, a human,
and say that I will treat you
as I would treat myself.
Though I remain myself,
and you remain yourself,
there is now this third creature,
suffused with us,
coterminous with us,
us more than us.
It is a pledge to not hurt,
to not break,
to not soil.
I will battle for all that is good to you;
you will battle for all that is good to me.

Sing “love”; but it is a song
tinged with joy and suffering,
gladness and sorrow.
Do not sing the words
if your voice can’t command
the melody.

But this, as always, is mere
background noise.
The trumpets blare,
the chorus acclaims,
and we hurtle on,
thinking the words are enough.