You and Love are Two Separate Concepts

I love the abstractions you make in conversations, the way

your eyes widen when I ask you to elaborate, and you can’t. I

love the strands of hair that stick to your shirt, the blonde and

the brown, despite your hair being black. I love the way our

love is an unpeeled orange, a thrown away Styrofoam cup,

the Hanged Man tarot card that the Psychic pulled when I

asked about you. Love is never Death, pale rider, proudly

holding his flag. I love that

love is a country that can’t be defended. I love the way you

misquote Shakespeare. A Horse, a horse, my kingdom for a

horse, replaced with my kingdom for a whore. I love when my

Fritos were stuck in the snack machine, somewhere between C4

and D6, hanging limply like the tie we hung on the door our first

time. I love the walls between us, the train approaching, the entry

and the exit. Love is only ever the exit. I love the earrings that get

stuck

in your hair. I love the scarred-over hole made by your little

brother pulling down too hard when he was 3. I love the stories

you told me about him. I love those glass bottles where you

push the marble down, the pop. We only buy those from the

market down the street. I love the questions you ask, like when

you asked the waitress if the picture of the steak was actually

how it looked. I realized then what the best explanation of love

was. Love is like eating a picture of steak, the crumple of paper,

the tear.

you and love are two