
Love isn’t
a weekend in Belize.
It’s not flattery.
Rarely, the perfect fit.
It isn’t cake and schnapps
or a walk by the river
with Thoreau
Love is
a photograph cropped,
rearranged, often marred
It’s an arsenal of joy,
of pain, a loaded gun
Locked, fired, reloaded,
fired again.
It’s salty, gritty
rarely sweet, at times solid
at others, a noddle slip
off a chopstick.
It’s a Rorschach test
a complex algorithm
disordered thoughts
Films never get it right.
Songs sometimes do.
Love is
difficult,
a chalkboard lesson,
in Mechanics and
Special Relativity
Love is
a Dixie cup
full of gin
the brush of angel’s wings
horse’s hooves in hell
Love is
true.
Seldom,
but when it is,
it wears sensible shoes.
-Tosha Michelle