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.
(too "new age-y")
Best, or Kind regards?
(too distant or formal)