Twelve Valentines

Twelve Valentines by Chris Vobe

Twelve Valentines is a collection of twelve original poems by Chris Vobe, author of The Water Tower and The Ten People You Meet. Intimate and reflective, this poetry collection explores love in its many forms—devotion and desire, loyalty and longing, estrangement and loss. Each poem offers space rather than certainty, inviting readers to discover their own meaning within the lines.

Designed to remain open to interpretation, Twelve Valentines follows three simple rules: whatever you want it to be, it is; whatever you take from it is yours; whatever it means to you is real. The result is a deeply personal reading experience, where emotion and memory meet on the page. Thoughtful and unguarded, these poems speak to anyone who has loved, lost, or searched for connection.

Discover Twelve Valentines today and experience a poetry collection that reminds you—quietly and sincerely—that you are loved.

Excerpt from the book

Through the echo of time we can’t reclaim

Every thorn is a memory

Every bloom the same…

I bought you a rose,

Not because the world lacks flowers

But because it swelled scarlet,

Burned in red,

The exact shade your cheeks betrayed

When you laughed too suddenly,

Involuntarily,

And forgot to guard the sound.

The petals opened like apologies

I never had the courage to speak;

Soft confessions layered,

One upon another,

Each mouthing your name

Before the last of them

Unfurled and proclaimed loudly.

I didn’t pick it for perfection.

Look there, on the photograph: that small tear along the edge

Where thorn met skin and won?

And here, again: the faint bruise where the rain that night

Lay too long.

The way it leaned slightly,

As though it was still learning how to stand

Under the weight of being seen.

Still, it stood.

It stood because the stem remembered

Every morning it had spent reaching toward the light,

Even when the sky seemed reluctant.

It stood the way you do,

Quietly defiant,

Beautifully unapologetic,

Carrying its scars like secret medals

No one else need understand.

It was only ever what it was:

Brief, extravagant, honest.

(Remind you of anyone?)

A fierce thing

That bloomed in spite of itself,

That chose colour over caution,

That dared to die openly

Rather than fold inward with fear.

I gave it to you

Because your hands always knew how to hold

Things which were both fragile and brave,

Because when you lifted it to your face

And breathed,

The garden inside you

Answered with a sigh

That sounded like coming home.

You kept it until the petals loosened

And fell like slow red snow.

The next time you see a rose,

Take one,

Press it between the pages

Of whatever book you’re reading

And think of me.

Let it mark the place

Where someone loved you

Exactly as you are:

Thorn-scratched, rain-marked,

Radiant,

And you.

Beauty is bravest

When it knows it will not last.

And still

It opens.

And still

It is given.

And still…