This is Love

I don’t want to be in this room any longer than I have to,

so love…give me room. Should we pass again in the streets

where we live, I don’t plan on having anything else to say.

Go, love…go where you need to be—I don’t blame you.


I fold like a page in a book you forgot to read; I shrug like a shoulder

you lost time for; the phantom limb that still bleeds sometimes when

no one’s looking.


I leave something behind on the streets where we live, while bleeding out

under streetlights; I’ll hold you like a painting of a meadow in my mind for

all eternity if that means love.


Bled out on the pavement under streetlamps made of love, made of stuff and

patched together for us; the shouldering of a mountain range.


I fold up like a paper stuck between the pages of a book you never read

or a picture forgotten then returned on accident, when it fell from

between the pages, left in the stained streets.


The painting of a meadow that I keep inside my head—that is love.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s