There are many varieties of love but, strangely, the normally rich English language boasts only one catch-all word to describe them all.
This is curious because the theme of love in one form or another must surely be the most written about subject there is.
I attempted, in this short poem written several years ago, to capture something of the feverish nature of romantic love when it arrives quite unexpectedly and renders a person almost delirious with passion.
I believed then, as I do now, that we don’t choose love: love chooses us.
At first it all seemed hit or miss:
a glance, a reckless engagement,
with no commitment either side,
a tea-shop visit, nothing more;
easy, no need for concealment,
that it might come to this:
this shifting of the nerve ends,
the creep of blood beneath the skin
that sends me pacing in the night
hungry for rest
or for the rest
of what I am,
for you, my twin,
and everything the future sends.