We Call it Love

We think it fills the gap made by inches lost around the middle

but still seek to devour it in each bite

because we think satisfaction comes from satiation.

We hope to catch it while scrolling through

a blue and grey screen stuffed with

filtered fragments of those we call friends.

 

We gather it up in small strips of green paper

that we can see and feel and know will not leave us

until of course they do.

We determine that some are worthy of it

while others need a little work

before we agree to hand it over.

We are very irresponsible with this thing called love,

pretending to shower others in it

but neglecting to actually turn the faucet on,

or trapping it inside of cupped hands

only to find it has seeped through the cracks

and splattered all around our feet.

Funny, this splatter is the closest we get to really knowing it,

when our own wet mess seeps into the ground underfoot

and mingles molecules with someone else’s molecules.

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