when my love pours beyond
the rim of the glass,
i won’t cry over spilt milk.

what is longing if not a drop,
pressed at once with cloth in vain.

let it run down the table’s edge,
a river of devotion.

and if it stains the wood, so be it
for what is love
if it leaves no mark?

let it rest in the grain,
a memory not meant to vanish
but to remind me, i once overflowed.


n.h.