a bird flapping its wings against wire
who does not wait for a fucking thing
who moves even when she is still
he has reduced you to a country of flesh"
love is a strange thing.
it comes at you, in wavves and torrents
and undeniable knife-wounds.
it's like a person who never washes their feet;
even after they've gone, their aroma lingers
everywhere they've stepped.
it leaves a brand on the brain
a searing touch
it confuses and frustrates
and is the most beautiful experience
in creation.
how much does it weigh?
your soul?
your best friend?
your lover?
how brittle the connections.
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