what they don't tell you about loveHow it stretches like ribbons of sweet taffy across
state lines, the millennia between the first touch and the one
that finally closed the books. How in the aftermath of loss
there is a panoply of stubborn memories - a hip bone
flush against another, sternums pancaked flat, formless words
passing between lips. Love is a puzzle of contractions, one vast breath
of a thing, the lungs too vigorous to pin shut, like a pair of wild birds
eternally pecking over their last meal. How far from death
even its death is. Look: here is a wisp of its hair, still clinging.
Here is the echo of the song it made, your throat still singing.