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Love (#23)
I can't tell you the reasons why I love you.
I can't tell you in little words.
I am not a poet.
I am an artist, but I am not a painter.
I am not a photographer and I am not a master of graphite.
So my words mean nothing.
My art means nothing.
There are no gifts, no actions of dedication that will prove.
I can't create music for you. I can't write lyrics.
I can't sing, dance, or perform magic.
I can't be the father of your child.
I can't be the perfect mate.
But know that I love you.
I beg you to know that simple fact.
It is my dear truth. The strongest feeling I know.
This is not a poem.
This is not art.
Only little bits of zeros and ones.
Perhaps you'll understand, perhaps not.
Only until my death, will you understand.

 2008 David Greg Harth
08.12.15.23:44:00@130BklynNYC