On Love

Love is not a poem drinking coffee at dusk  
calculating distance of space to close between us;  
It's a ratio of silence at the gallery opening;  
the dark-cornered guest with an understanding  
we fail to emulate.  
  
It mingles like an impaled olive, cemented  
in glassine. Its grief outshines  
beautiful lichen munching satiated on stone  
when taken for granted, or aroused.  
The reminder hurts, so we close its orange-red eye  
with the sharp fingers of our mouth.  
 
We reason its truth until shrunken to a memory  
of a memory. It's not about our need, though;  
not the climb, the thrill, the release of salt  
and oil across our lips. It's about the stomach, peeling  
from the burn of heart. Or, becoming soggy, stale—  
our wordless mouths wide as epitaphs, sealed  
in a burning envelope of flesh.  
   
Love is not an Arbitrator mitigating gravity  
of circumstance with the warmth of absolution  
between us. Nor is it all wine at dawn, reflecting  
its burgundy omen. It's a bite: raw cacao; pine  
needles and bare feet; spoon of ice cream;  
swallowing a shard of ice.  
   
It's not a bookie on the bench with a pigeon  
in the race. But the very coop where we hatched,  
innated with a return tracking device;
but, all our educated-ignorance doesn't know how  
to finish this poem, so we can get back home once again.  
   
The End?  
(too cliché)  
 
Blessed be?  
(you're kidding?)
   
Namaste?  
(too "new age-y")
   
Sincerely?  
(too blasé)
   
Cordially --  
Best, or Kind regards?  
(too distant or formal)
   
Your Friend?  
(too "pamphlet-y")
   
Always?  
(maybe...)
   
Love?  
Yes. Love. 
~