An empty room.
Two windows on either side.
I stand on the outside and peer in
And there you are, outside the other window.

There is a door.
If we meet in the middle and stand side by side we could walk in together.
The room no longer empty, we could waltz between walls and cast our sorrows on the window ledge and leave our skin in the corner
Free and mad and vulnerable

But you do not move toward the door.
Neither do I.
We are content to gaze through windows and it is all
Quite sad.

The room is still empty
And we are two fools (children, perhaps) that call what we feel love.
The gap between us does not make us itch and whine and claw at our insides

We are content to gaze through windows,
Content to admire each other from a distance,
To admire the art from behind the ropes.
But we were not made to be galleries.
We were made to be wild and vivid and too close for comfort.

What we feel is not love.
It is many things,
and it is certainly beautiful,
But it is not love.