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.

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