Love has no goals, it is not
a gifted child, it is a film
where the climax is being.

Love is the daily walk
despite repeated scenery,
the same woods and trail,

the
boring coffee in that cafe,
even if the bombs were falling,
just one more time

the sight the smell the presence.

The tragedy:
love is not a person,
transmissible
and inexact as weather,
black grapes dangling
lush with sweet juice
you cannot see the vine:
outside the window
love waits while you
pull him closer,

not a person,
but applicable to many.
The bird you claim
to know by a species
wide song.

Perhaps that is what
we are here for: love
and its endlessness,
driven mad
it could be another.
Perhaps that explains
some of the tears.