There’s a certain way to
voice it that removes all trace
of doubt:
I love you denotes that
you’ve been chosen; out of everyone
who’s birthed; that I know of
seasoned ardour & its
heave; two clans who tug in
kilts below the boughs,
your name in orange plaid—
the hue of a lifting sun.
Your lambency aloft
beyond the rain.
I love you is stuck in self-
importance. A smug,
Earth-centric cosmos.
How honoured
you should be of
my devotion—as though each rose
a laurel—from the gardener
not the garth. Every drop of aqua
spawned of jug and not of cloud.
I love you is a nimbus’
restitution, dropping its
gifted plume—
as a pilot does a bomb—
in & up then down.
And yes, passion’s often such:
appraise the way a woman
laments the name of
her fallen son; the father who in
weeks will wet her coffin; and
the misty-eyes of Aspens,
mourning the passing wood
as much as we.
Andreas Gripp
April 15, 2026
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