Yet I actually did love.
And what was my love?
I, for whom love was
the mystery itself,
supposed to be
always just
out of reach, did love,
and did love that love,
the love I hoped
to miss as love,
loving too much
the love I sought
to love as love.
Had it really been
the love just
unreachable,
that still, somehow,
had been mine? Yes it
must have been, I
did love, must have loved,
even if it was
love fallen
just out of reach of love,
if ever the love
had been my love.
My love?
Oh and what a
twisting and
twisting
mordantly
lovely glass stair-
case of a love
it is.