i have already something
  new and sublime to say
  about love.
as two people on the bench
   where the birds are
unashamedly perching right by,
  pecking on the cheek of the world
soon enough now, the hand of
   which mad drivel shall tear
   this photograph in two
  and with a hand on the knee
   as a gentle stamp to
  a reaching-for-and-out epistle,
  we are far away,

and love is as sad as the
   flower that has grown
weary of waiting for the sun
   to fulminate altogether with
    its eyes staring in the
   veranda of hope wide-awake.
  and love is as short as the
   sudden jolt of bones, atremble,
  as though you have fallen
    completely into,
   but have only fallen out,
  partially, one foot first
    out the yawning door
  and into the heavy premises
of a heart's trying forgetfulness.
  to have heard once, the call
   of a tame voice through
   the wild hand of trouble's immensity, and to have held it
   once so shortly bold thereafter,
  with leonine eyes i see only
  a small distance i cannot seal
    with one kiss. i need a hundred more of you and a thousand more of this before i can fill your nebulosity with a million star-like
   kisses traced only by the
   white hand of time that continues to punctuate our
   sentences right even before
   our lips quiver to speak them
  softly like how i first sank
  in you and you in me, a flotsam
   of memories.

i have something new to show
   about love with mine eye's
  unresting shutters capture
moments held loose like a mother's
   frail child,
this photograph with your hand
   on my knee,
  cleaved into worlds from the
  silence of our eyes and
  only longing
     speaks so much the straightforward,
     we are far away.