I have been practicing form with many curls of graphite on paper between soft blue and white lines scratching hollow hearts in repetition until they bend into V’s: that very shape children turn birds into.
Careful and careless with my heart as I am with the storm cloud of little ones on my pages flurried into place by my absent mind I am absent I am filled to my throat with smoke, the desire to take flight, absent in thoughts of you.
The shape of an arrowhead, Eros’ penetrating tip. The angle of a woman’s *******. The bend of a wishbone ready to snap. These could all be called the shape of love
but my love will always be a bird too high, a V windbound, that I will pin to my fridge with a magnet and look at every other Sunday when I remember it.