She's in love with love.
She loves love’s weblike
Entanglements, its
Holds, its deep woven

Intricacies. She
Loves the waiting for
Him, the hour to come,
The time to tick fast

Away until his
Return, the sight of
Him once more, the scent,
The feel, the hold. She’s

In love with his hot
Embraces, kisses,
Touches, exchanges
Of juices, love filled

Words and gestures and
The unfolding of
Love and love’s fond tale.
She loves the place in

Bed where he may lay,
The pillow where his
Head shall be, the bed’s
Impressions where his

Body’s humanness
Laid the flesh and bones
And dreams and ***. She
Loves the unfolding

Unspokenness of
That hour, those still
Moments, that just them
Laying there, just them

Embracing, that just
Sensing him being,
Him breathing, him just
Being him, being

There waking, sleeping.
She loves by love’s deep
Hold, by love’s profound
Entanglements. She

Wants him there always,
Always in each time’s
Ticking of the clock,
The two hands of time’s

Turning, she wants his
Fingers to explore,
To delve, to stroke, to
Run across her lips

Before a kiss. She’s
in love with love of
Him. She remembers
The first lip to lip,

The first time making
Love, the first row, the
First return. She now
Recalls his last words,

His final gaze, the
Back of him leaving,
The turning of his
Head. She’s in love with

Him even after
Death, following his
Dyingness, despite
Him long being dead.