The thing about love is that
it is never resting, always rambunctious.
It is playing hopscotch with
the child and winning.
It is between two teenagers
and it's laughing matter and loud.
It is holding onto me.
It is latching onto five
languages.
It is killing the heart of the
only one in two who said
goodbye first (and unknowingly forever).
It is holding onto me.
And I to it
too much, and it becomes a
venom.
Too much, and it dies in a
marriage we didn't hope would take to dying.
Too much, and it is easily confused
for the balling of a fist,
the smile sliding in around
the fear.
It is a bar of soap for
everyone.
Nobody likes the void it tends to
open up.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
