love, as in falling-in-love,
no longer exists for me.
not fondness, not affection.
not any of it.
I simply don’t believe in it.
and I see no value in considering it deeply.
I find no meaning in it
of any kind, no usefulness or purpose.
no interest in it
as a plot element,
or a conflict
or a trope
or a character arc
or the subject of a poem.
have I loved?
of course, and now I renounce it.
no-love makes it hard to be a writer or a poet. what is left to write about?
I suppose there are still some themes.
you’d never know it by skimming the shelves of bookstores. it’s all love, love and more love.
it makes it hard even to be a reader.
no Jane Austin.
I’m trying not to be pessimistic.
it’s not as if I can do anything about it—about the fact that no-love
makes half (or more) of all literature incomprehensible and foreign. false.
I guess my job now is to find out what I still do believe in.
find those poets who understand me, who understand that falling-in-love is just a chemical trip.
there are other kinds of love.
I will write about them.