They say light is the absence of darkness
and life is the absence of death,
but how can love be the absence of hatred?
How can love be anything less than a
drawer full of handwritten letters from my
shaking, unnerved hands to your
crescent moon eyes, taking me in
like a night above the water?
How can love be a leap,
a flick of a light-switch away
from you being my entire world
or just a stranger down the street?
There are no simple things in this life,
love alone being the most complicated thread –
strung through us all until we hang like
paper people on a wire, shaken until
there is nothing left to us but shells
and a promise that something once
lived in them.