Love isn’t pretty.
It startles you in the night
grabs you by the throat
empties your soul
in the dark silence
a primordial light washes the floor,
raises your edges: the weave of the bedspread,
your hand, and its pop-top scar, tiny white hairs, two sun spots, creases, veins,
one broken half-polished nail, the pencil callous on your middle finger, every lie you’ve ever written.
|Signs of Love (Imagination)|