I’ve heard so many theories.
Hypothesis of what real love is.
How to pick out love from the second hand knock offs
Littered in the bin I’m elbow deep in.
Someone once told me it was loathing.
It was loathing that persons breath
But putting up with it anyways
Because you loved them.
Someone once told me it was adoration.
Adoration so much that it shakes your bones
And breaks off your sinew
Till you’re a jiggling jello mold
shaking down the street to the tune of their name.
Someone once told me it was holding onto reality.
True love is keeping it in your hand
As the strings of reality pull at your fingers
And you don’t lose either.
But I’ve got my own paint and paintbrushes
Scrubbing chemicals across my skin
Trying to make my skin the right shade of love
The right colors of love.
Deleting and typing, deleting and typing
Trying to make my words the words of a lover.
Lisping and unlisping, accent and unaccenting
Trying to make my voice the voice of a lover.
But I think I figured it out.
Love is not a one way street.
Love is not solitare.
Love is not tetris
Or all the singular games and singular activities you can think of.
Love is two fiddles.
Love is two snowflakes.
Everyone says each snowflake is different
And so is every love.
Every love is going to be different.
There is no right or wrong way for love.
No definite rules
Set out by great hierarchies
Telling me love
Love is a candle
Supposed to burn slow and long.
My love is a match.
May it burn quick and hot
And may it sting a bit at the end.