Love (Version #23)

I can’t tell you the reasons why I love you.

I can’t tell you in little words.

I am not a poet.

I am an artist, but I am not a painter.

I am not a photographer and I am not a master of graphite.

So, my words mean nothing.

My art means nothing.

There are no gifts, no actions of dedication that will prove.

I can’t create music for you. I can’t write lyrics.

I can’t sing, dance, or perform magic.

I can’t be the father of your child.

I can’t be the perfect mate.

But know that I love you.

I beg you to know that simple fact.

It is my dear truth. The strongest feeling, I know.

This is not a poem.

This is not art.

Only little bits of zeros and ones.

Perhaps you’ll understand, perhaps not.

Only until my death, will you understand.

© 2008 David Greg Harth

08.12.15.23:44:00@130BklynNYC