Thirty-six

by Rod McKuen

I live alone.

It hasn’t always been that way.

It’s nice sometimes

to open up the heart a little

and let some hurt come in.

It proves you’re still alive.

I’m not sure what it means.

Why we cannot shake the old loves from our minds.

It must be that we build on memory

and make them more than what they were.

And is the maufacture

just a safe device for closing up the wall?

I do remember.
The only fuzzy circumstance
is sometimes where-and-how.
Why, I know.

It happens just because we need

to want and to be wanted too,

when love is here or gone

to lie down in the darkness

and listen to the warm.

Go back to my romantic poetry list.

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