A/N: Sestina, written for a class poetry unit. Please feedback. Concrit is always appreciated.

Parentheses

I doubt there’s any feeling more powerful than love.
The jaded among us say it brings only pain.
I don’t know much,
but I know that they’re wrong,
I know that love is a creation of some great heavenly artist
who only wanted what was best for us.

The word still sends shivers of elation down my spine. “Us.”
I’ve waited all my life for someone to love.
You’re perfect. You’re flawless. You’re an artist
with words. One little phrase makes all the pain
vanish. My friends say I’m wrong
to say it’s love, so early, but I know this much:

itis love, pure love, and you deserve so much
more than I can give back, but the two of us
were meant to be. I can’t be wrong
about this. You always recognize love,
it takes your knees out from under you. A little pain,
yes, but when you’re finally together, it’s worth it. It takes an artist,

it would take a million artists
to truly describe it. They’ve tried, of course. Much
of the world’s art is love: love found, love lost, the pain
that seems to just be a part of it. But not with us.
Never with us. Because this is love,
plain and simple, and whoever says otherwise is wrong.

How can they say that? How can they say that you’re wrong
for me? You’re an artist,
you’re insightful, you’re fantastic, and I’m in love
and no one can take that away from me, no matter how much
they think they know. They don’t know me, the don’t know us,
they don’t know what we have, something strong enough to gloss over the pain

(for the most part)
I mean, it’s normal for love to be painful
(of course it is, it’s all normal)
and it’s not like either of us did anything wrong
(except you did)
but we’ll overlook that for now because of us
(are we still an us?)
I know I’m a me, and you’re a you, a con-artist
(except you’re not, unless you are)
and I want more than anything to believe you, I want so much
(please)
for everything to go back to the way it was
(so I could say that I was still in love)