#154

May 3, 2012 § 33 Comments

“What is Love?”
A poet would not write such a thing.

She will simply tell you that this morning
when he kissed her
gravity
got stronger

that it pulled the blood through her veins
like those swirling
soda pop bottle
tornadoes

She will tell you
that his fingers
are tied
to stars

like balloon strings
because when she holds them
the sky
draws closer

She will tell you
of the perfect
shape
of his pockets
and the notch
just below
his right shoulder

She will tell you
she does not know
how long
she has known him,
can no longer distinguish
dark from light
and the calendar counts days
in black and white

She will not pretend
to comprehend
what “love is”
She will simply tell you
she no longer remembers
what it felt like
to need
to breathe

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§ 33 Responses to #154

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