Love arrives at my door
with a knock and a revolver.
“How much do you love me?”
she asks. I stutter—
and she soaks me in her sweat.
I feel rejuvenated,
and Love pushes me down,
buries me beneath leaves
and flowers.
“I love you this much…” I say,
and die peacefully—
while the ****** stumps
of my once-wings twitch
slightly.
We go off in a boat,
Love is captain, I am crew.
She now has a shiny hook
for a hand. She gestures me over:
“How do you love me?”
With perfect concentration,
I unscrew her hook,
tie the string of night to it,
and swing it up—
catching the open-mouthed moon.
With a quick tug,
I bring it down for her.
We lay on the water together,
watching the boat drift off—
smaller and smaller—
and Love and I
float for a lifetime or two,
watching satellites wink
as they fly by.
I ask her, “Love,
how much do you love me?”
“So much. That’s all I say,”
she answers.
“Sooooooo much!”
“But how? How do you love me?”
She smiles,
reaches for the light switch
on the other side of the sun—
CLICK.
She curls up next to me
in the darkest of dark,
in the blackest of black.
She spoons me close,
her good hand on my heart.
“This much,” she whispers,
“and this is how.”
