The most loved often
is not loved at all. Like…
A medieval verse on love
starts with its end. Like
an impetuous outflow
of rigid desires.
It never stays. It never stops.
It stagnates. A medieval verse
on love wears cast
iron helmets wore on the heads
of the chieftains of before fore times
for protection
from love’s blows, from
those who are being loved.
The most loved often
is not loved at all. Like
a medieval verse on love
of chivalry, of long waits,
of fluctuating constants
of emotions.
A medieval verse on love
always lies. It always fluctuates.
But it stays. Like medieval love
stays. And the most
loved, often,
is not loved at all.
—
Previously published on medium
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Photo credit: Nighthawks by Edward Hopper 1942
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