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.