The tears get pulled like rubber bands, warm in the sunshine and ready
for a plucky mind and a darting hand. Why is life so filled with the strings
of Love, the pangs of Love, the marble statues erected in the name
of those so long past the vessels in our fingers that only the Sun can remember?
Why so filled with the ropes that string up the hopes of every romantic hobo,
every passing star that scars the sky at 3am? We cry like halfwits into our glasses
and dribble our declarations as if they would last. And they do. They last.
Because the heart is a soldier and love is what every mission concludes will be
a success. It is sometimes enough
that the flow is only one way. It is the way it snaps back at you, stuns you
and fills you, flooding the corners, rounding the sharp edges, drawing
blisters on your skin, another victim of the bold face of that brazen Sun,
that hissing, stupid Moon. So in love, we are, with that too bright