love unjustified by any action or thought, indescribable excruciating anticipation for nothing, a train meant to arrive late at no specific hour on a cold overcast day, walk across the street sit at an empty booth and stare at the condensation dripping down the sides of a glass cup, run left index finger down its side, watch it shiver and continue in a slow crawl over the trenches of your digits.
love in pain, in dusty closets sitting down cross-legged with clothes like hovering clouds over burst of inconceivable passion after burst of unnecessary vulgarities, loops in the carpet strung up by stepping and stepping hard. Pushing forward over and over strong enough to move furniture slight enough for no one to notice when they arrive from work.
love in long hours, stretched out balloon skin tight over the lampshades, desktops, couches, opening the bulbs of flowers, the white arms of 15 petals escaping sleep in yawns of hundreds at noon.
because frankly
love is insensitively rich, decadent in ignorance, deliciously blind and vapid
sitting on a cold hard plate next to fingers and silverware, virgin white cloth napkins stained with maroon and age, chocolate cake
and love is
gone
love is always gone before you ever feel its landing on your silver cheek, hardened by the "what it could have beens" and more
and love is played
long notes on a cello, marred by agitating silence, echoed only louder in a small empty room, you and I and love being played solemnly sworn together by loneliness
settles
in the dust, I am
what love is and what isn't, couldn't be, and never will.
