The Unwritten Love Poem

Almost ten years ago, I wrote an unsigned love poem to a girl I hardly knew.  I told Brianna, among other things, that life was a blaze of magnificence, that she made it even brighter, and that someday I would spend everyday with the prettiest girl in the world.

When she read the poem she got goose bumps, smiled from ear to ear, and daydreamed about the gentleman behind the poetic prose.  She showed it to her sister who sighed and said, “How romantic… I wish someone would write me a poem like that.”  Then she showed it to her parents.  Her mom smirked, but her dad frowned and said, “Don’t waste your thoughts on a foolish boy hiding behind a silly poem.”  Finally, she let her new boyfriend read it.  In a grim voice he said, “Let me know when you find out who wrote it, because I’d like to give him a piece of my mind!”

Despite reactions ranging from enthusiasm to aggravation, she kept the poem and still has it in her possession today… nearly ten years later.  Her younger brother, Jose, recently found it neatly folded and tucked between two pages of a photo album she keeps in her den.

I know all this because Jose told me.  He and I met in school ten years ago and we have been best friends ever since.  He was, frankly, the reason I wrote the poem.

A Second Glance

“Your sister is pretty,” I told Jose during my first visit to his home.

“Forget about it,” he said.  “Brianna has buff guys fighting for her affection everyday.  You couldn’t hold her attention long enough to get a second glance.”

“I could if I wrote her a poem,” I replied.

“She has guys writing her romantic crap all the time,” he said.  “She’ll just toss it out with all the other failed attempts.”

“Not mine,” I insisted.

“You’re crazy,” he chuckled.  “Go ahead and try.  Make me laugh!”

I wrote the poem that evening and mailed it anonymously the next morning.

I Thought I Was Special

The poem I wrote Brianna wasn’t genuine, at least not in my mind.  I wrote it because Jose doubted me.  Sure, I thought Brianna was pretty, but I didn’t want to settle down with her.  At the time, I didn’t even know her.  And as it turns out, she and I have almost nothing in common.

The last genuine love poem I wrote went to a girl I met a month before I met Brianna.  She was on the varsity soccer team, and her beauty was majestic.  I wrote Sara a poem and slipped it into her locker the same afternoon.  I confessed my desire to be a soccer ball, and risk being kicked around, if it was the only way I could catch her attention.  She caught up with me the next morning and told me I didn’t need to transform into a soccer ball to catch her attention.  I asked her out on a date a few minutes later.

Our first date went well.  But the next afternoon Sara spoke to a few of her teammates, two of which I had previously dated.  She was appalled when she found out that I had written Jackie a poem about innocent kisses blown her way in the breeze, and Carol a poem about the lucky sunshine that glistens off her skin.  Needless to say, a second date was not in our future. 

“Stupid me…  When I read the poem I actually believed you were being sincere!  I thought I was special,” Sara screamed!

“I was… and you are,” I mumbled as she walked away.

But Sara had a point.  Although I had never summoned the desire to be a soccer ball in any of my previous poems, I did use similar analogies that carried the same fundamental connotations of flirtatious affection. 

I wasn’t trying to hurt her.  I thought she was gorgeous.  I thought she carried herself with amazing grace.  I wanted to be around her.  I wanted to be hers.  She was the most perfect girl in the entire world… and I felt this way a hundred times before.

No Two Words Would Rhyme

Roughly six months after I met Brianna, I met Angel.  I realized shortly thereafter that she moved me in a way the others had not.  I couldn’t consciously pinpoint it, but I knew our relationship felt special.  Even after the initial excitement fatigued, she kept me captivated in awe.  I was wide awake in the second inning for the first time in my life.

Angel and I have been together for nine years now and I appreciate her more and more with each passing day.  Yet despite my love for her, she’s never received a love poem. 

It’s not that I haven’t tried.  I tried, once, to write her a poem about the depth and beauty of her hazel-green eyes.  I stumbled over my words.  Another time I tried to write her a poem about the mornings I wake up early just to watch her sleep.  I failed again.  And just last month I tried to write her a poem entitled “Amidst an Angel.”  But no two words would rhyme.

Nine years and not a single love poem written.  Of course, Angel knows I love to write, so she has periodically questioned my motives for never writing her a romantic piece.

Yesterday afternoon I found myself trying again.  I tried to poetically recreate the story of our first encounter.  I wanted to make it cute.  I wanted to make her smile.  I wanted to make her cry.  I wanted to typify our tale in exquisite prose.  Nothing came.

The Most Profound Affirmation

I fell asleep last night thinking about my predicament.  Have I lost my touch?  Has someone cast an evil spell on me?  Or is there a more profound, philosophical explanation?


I dreamt I was sitting at round table in a dimly lit room.  There was a man sitting across the table from me.  He looked a lot like me, only his hair was peppered with silver and his skin was worn.

“I’m here to answer your question,” he said.

“What question?” I asked.

“The one you’ve been asking yourself for years,” he replied.

“What’s wrong with me?” I huffed.  “Why can’t I write Angel a love poem?”

“Perhaps you can’t write her a love poem because you realize, subconsciously, that leaving it unwritten is the most profound affirmation of love you can make.    Because you truly do love her, and true love cannot be translated into words.  Because words alone could never do her any justice.”

I nodded in agreement.

He went on: “The sad truth, of course, is that this affirmation of love will always remain unnoticed.  Because there is no visible output to notice… no poem to read.”

My eyes popped open. 

Inspired to Write

It was 4AM, but I was wide awake and inspired to write about the epiphany I had in my dreams.  I leaned over, kissed Angel on the forehead, and rolled out of bed.  I powered on my laptop and opened the word processor I use for blogging.  After gazing at the blank white screen for several minutes, I placed my fingers on the keyboard and titled the page “The Unwritten Love Poem.”

Photo by: DoUJa


  1. Marcel says

    With a story like this, and now the way I feel about it… lost in thought, we should title this,

    “The Unwritten Comment.”

  2. muse says

    Just found your site and love it. In fact I leave the link open so I can peruse your links and posts easily. You have given Angel an amazing gift with this one.

  3. Cvsr Deepa says

    It really melted my heart. It made me think of a past event in my life :) True love is really hard to put in words. Beautiful article

  4. Late Again says

    Your story is beautiful! It reminds me… Keats actually wrote a beautiful stanza about the inability of words to properly articulate the true majesty of love. It’s the second stanza of “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
    Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
    Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
    She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

  5. Mike says


    I just found your site. One word to describe it: Amazing!

    “Unwritten Love poem”, by you… great!!!

    Six words of advice for you: Self publish, make the money Marc!

  6. Renbuzz says

    Really enjoyed this…thoughtfully thinking about the love of my life, whom I was married to for a decade and a year…till it seemingly fell apart, unwraveled… technically still together, yet remain apart. Were still separated. Awaiting a letter they said the intended to send, yet have not received…perhaps he still loves me despite our differences…perhaps I too will never receive this letter. Much to my attempts, I too have been trying to put my thoughts on paper…yet nothing has transpired.

  7. Tamara says

    Just ran across your site last night and woke up this morning excited about reading more of what you had to share. This is stunning… I love it!

  8. Zach says

    Just wanted to say I love this post, and I hope that you never take this website down. Especially on days when I am down, really boosts my spirits.

  9. Jody says

    I also really love this post… I’m an artist… I do graphic design, and illustrations for a living, and have for a long time. I’ve been married for 15 years to my heart’s desire, a man I cannot fathom one moment, and who I know better than I know myself the next. He is my heart, and you know I have never, ever been able to paint, draw, or render him. I cannot do it… he is beyond representation… for me.

    I feel you.

  10. Claude LaPointe says

    Evocative stuff, this. To write or not to write; does she laugh at it and toss it, or keep it for the rest of her life? Evocative because when I was 15, I’d set myself on a hugely buttholish life path that I’d somehow reckoned would make me strong. Then I met the Queen of my high school the first day of my junior year, in ‘consumer chemistry’ of all things. Fell in love instantly – 15, remember – but she was a senior, most popular, breathtakingly radiant (genuine) smile, homecoming Queen, and beloved by all except the most envious, so what chance did I have. Of course I never said a word of it to anyone.

    But she saved my life. Just knowing her on a strictly acquaintance basis showed even a blind & bitter young idiot that her most uncool enthusiasm, good cheer, faith & optimism gave her a strength far above the brittle armor of my…whatever the hell my plan was. So I changed my plans, started trying to think like she would, and saved my life. I wrote her a heartfelt anony letter, thanking her for it. “To: Carol XXXX, c/o her parents”.

    Wonder if she ever got it. Wonder what she thought of it. Wonder if she still thinks of it, these 35 years later. I still do. Just wish I’d had the guts to sign it.

    Good post. Good blog. Hat tip from an olden dude.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *