Love is not meant to be symbolic.
It is just that
giving and taking,
the triviality of it all,
while we exist at the mercy of the world.
(Your bluest eyes, I miss)
when you played me that bassline honey.
These jazz songs,
they talk about loss,
the sacred place.

In the bluest hour,
I met you at the altar of surrender.
Ah, the poignancy of things.
How we were always looking at each other
but never in the same direction.