This one isn't quite T S Eliot. But I try. Humbly speaking. Everyone at (one) of my workplaces is getting married, mortgaged and relishing these marks of adulthood. Because I spend half my week in the Peter Pan-struck postcode of 2010, I also live and breathe the aging hipster fear of growing old, as shown by inappropriate age fashion and mass love of Cheap Mondays jeans.
Enough granny griping. Here's the poem.
Lie to me.
"There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet..."
('The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.')
I write you no letters.
I give you no rings.
In these modern times
Of obligation free, no guarantees
Consenting liaisons
Quid pro quo
We have an understanding.
You say this is honesty
As the sun shines cold, stolen warmth
For a distant summer.
As dusk drops its shadows in your room
By tree-lined street, the city lights flicker
We are being honest.
Honesty, I replied, is a fallacy
A cool mask cover for whatever agenda
You require.
Love is a game, not a gamble
I always win.
"I've never been in love," you said.
"But I believe in it."
Like God.
Like Radiohead lyrics.
Like freedom, truth, justice, beauty
Love.
So I will write you no letters.
I will give you no rings.
If in the street tomorrow, you passed by and asked
I would tell you, under the cold light of day
"No, no. I have never known love."
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