You've many hearts but not mine, valentine.
My love is not a valentine-
my love
speeds like the tongues of angels when there's signal;
when answerphones and end-call symbols
can't get through to love
love looks again and spies you in the crowd,
talks past barriers until allowed
to love
burns, I suppose, a little like a rose:
once read it opens as it grows
in love
is ancient, blind, untrendily
hopeful what the end will be
for love
cannot be glued and fails to be self-sticking:
this stamp's a puny substitute for kissing
your lips my love
like shellfish, but that won't go in the post:
oysters must wait until you’re close
enough to love
improperly, to rise up unprovoked,
to print your skim with stronger strokes:
LOVE
a childish thing, glow-in-the-dark,
a small and stubborn, ever-fixed mark,
this love
hides in the pen and letter's crease,
trying to last past letters' cease-
with love
hopefully enclosed,
x
You deserve to be loved.