We draw hearts
in the margin of things—
never quite even
always squiggly
as if love refuses
to be taken
in picture—
only drawn
with candle wax
from a shaking hand.

Curves
hesitations
dips in doubt—
love is unsettling
that way.

I kept them always
faithful to my faith—
lived in linens
creased corners
noteworthy notebooks
tearful retreats
as if affection
could be
as messy
and still mean everything.