The Sound of One Heart Cracking

The poets talk of love. Do you think they know What it means? A shimmering dream Of sunlit grassy fields? (So they say) Or an endless stream Of wet dreams? Holding hands in a cinema You watch translucent transcendent lovers Kissing by a fountain in the park. You caress in the dark The sweaty, stubby fingers of another, Of your lover (So you say). Still, I am no poet I cannot sing of how I feel In neat metre and rhyme Nor reveal to you my crime of passion. You must know what love sounds like And must hear it in the glacial cracking of my heart.