Is love the forever longing
of the forever-lost half?
You must squeeze uneven
puzzle piece, disjointed,
burnishing your own?

Or is love in the yearning?
Distant petals tickling stomach
aches, butterflies rising straying
hearts? The impossible completion,
smoke of inhibition, pre-completion
passion of pre-burnt halves?

So love is in the prohibition?
Candle flame: inevitably whisp?


Or, is love in the taking, stepping,
inward-straying, outward-staying
signal to billowing plumes of white
Hawthorn that they will be back soon in May.