On a fleeting February morning
Seconds pass like icicles
And as I stop to listen to their steady drip
Those seconds seem to slowly slip
Away

Immeasurable, finite mornings full of
Infinite calculated risks.

Life weaving 'round my fingertips
Electricity, in my hands and my heart
Feeble panics and anxious starts

What, exactly, is love?

A painter's elegant brushstrokes, as tender and careful as
Or
A passionate song, the percussion mirroring the rapid heartbeat of
Or
Something as simple as a question
Sent to two phones.

There's a comfort in being alone.
You don't have to worry about breaking hearts
No nervous texts
Or ginger starts.

But
Everyone can hear the song.
Everyone can see the painting.
Anyone could read this poem.
Blank verse, freeform, enigmatic.
Confused.