because love is the summer
and its haze is the invitation
to winter

because it is what our inner sense
refutes and strips us of
our meaningless rationales

because it is what necessitates
our blurred selves to come
into a halcyon of so many laughters
weaving only what tears could
never provide - a diadem of light

because love is a string of birds
that continually searches for
a thick green home and atop
is where it perches proudly
looking down on new moon
and old stars,

because love is the pour of
something as luminous, crystalline
as a faint spark of frankness,
and that we, in believing this,
must have forgotten what it meant
to be obsequiously wounded closer
to the hortatory of roses and their
prickly salutations

and because love is the tongue
surrounded by the many words
of pain, and that it is its
refusal to wake in the day
of a language without a word
for winter and infinitude

because love is the chaos of
sound that it hears only alone -
unless unmindfully, rawly, we
hold it close to our chests
as it moves with its fledgling beat, ready to touch.