For the petson who gave me these words
<>
Love is:
*A multi celled organism, roughly round,
but not of necessity circular,
(circular love, easily shift shapes. BE wary)
It is, both fluid and rock hard concrete,
Overly defined and/or a deconstructed aerie breeze,
unmeasurable, immeasurable,
Except for the speed of its
Arrival
and the
hurricane of its
Departure,
Unseen and the Unsound,
so soon disappeared
Surely it is sensory, for I have witnessed,
this L0VE notional I have
seen, tasted,
heard, envisioned
even actually
felt
And yet,
a grown poet shed tears,
Upon completion of a love poem,
And recipient of said poem weeps without term
getting through another day.
and the day after.,
but precision counts,*
It is the
knot of not,
the tied up exhaustion of the absence thereof,
the dulling that that hopefully
takes the edge off the blade,
but does
not,
Erased when open eyes & declare awake,
for
the duller the day gets,
the more the blade cuts ragged deeper,
its horrific edge
scratches like broken nails,
bite like jagged teeth
Stars ***** you deep,
Hugs squeeze your breath out, away,
Dreams disappear, the sweet taste, retained,
fain but faint on the edges of the tongue,
blurry but there,
silently reverberating,
and the memory of the sensation is never entirely erased,
but
getting through the day,
'tis sufficient,
even adequate
for the love of hope
the love of love,
no matter what you deny,
is the tablet swallowed unconsciously,
so getting through to the next day
is the unlocking key
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 5:44 PM UTC
For the petson who gave me these words
<>
Love is:
*A multi celled organism, roughly round,
but not of necessity circular,
(circular love, easily shift shapes. BE wary)
It is, both fluid and rock hard concrete,
Overly defined and/or a deconstructed aerie breeze,
unmeasurable, immeasurable,
Except for the speed of its
Arrival
and the
hurricane of its
Departure,
Unseen and the Unsound,
so soon disappeared
Surely it is sensory, for I have witnessed,
this L0VE notional I have
seen, tasted,
heard, envisioned
even actually
felt
And yet,
a grown poet shed tears,
Upon completion of a love poem,
And recipient of said poem weeps without term
getting through another day.
and the day after.,
but precision counts,*
It is the
knot of not,
the tied up exhaustion of the absence thereof,
the dulling that that hopefully
takes the edge off the blade,
but does
not,
Erased when open eyes & declare awake,
for
the duller the day gets,
the more the blade cuts ragged deeper,
its horrific edge
scratches like broken nails,
bite like jagged teeth
Stars ***** you deep,
Hugs squeeze your breath out, away,
Dreams disappear, the sweet taste, retained,
fain but faint on the edges of the tongue,
blurry but there,
silently reverberating,
and the memory of the sensation is never entirely erased,
but
getting through the day,
'tis sufficient,
even adequate
for the love of hope
the love of love,
no matter what you deny,
is the tablet swallowed unconsciously,
so getting through to the next day
is the unlocking key
Just get through no matter what
