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.