The Period at the End of the Sentence

I am in love with the idea of love

and the idea of loving the idea of love;

love is, to me, something I can own, beat,

put punctuation marks around –

something I can trap in a sheet of paper

like a nasty insect prisoner in a mason jar,

contain it, watch over it, scold it for itself;

my love is the dark, unknowable place

where you become nothing more than

the period at the end of the sentence

giving a poor explanation of what love is,

where I stand over you with a notebook

analyzing every stupid thing you do in

the name of love, wondering why?

dancing in circles around you with the

perpetual why? because I will never

understand in the way that you

understand that your love is a place

of light, candles, windows – and mine is

ash, ink, and half-smoked cigarettes.

I have loved poems more than people;

that is my sentence and

it has no period

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10 thoughts on “The Period at the End of the Sentence

  1. I’m especially curious when you write “because I will never understand in the way that you understand that your love is a place of light, candles, windows…”. I’m wondering who this “you” whom you write about is; is this anyone in particular that you’re writing to and/or about?

  2. Eerie, dark, a little scary… awesome.
    there is no full stop, I don’t want this to stop, there is no resolution, no finality, it will just keep going on, always moving along, pushing, running, away from behind me, scared of what was there at the start, how can I catch my breath when I’m always running, running away with you

      1. You are of course most welcome to Natalie, but Hold that stapler for a moment if you will, I am pressing my slightly expanded version today sometime 😀

  3. This is a mysterious and flickering exploration of love done by candle light in catacombs with skulls and leg bones piled in dusty heaps all round. Thanks for bringing me along with you. Eek and ick and mmmm. 😉

Thoughts? I love those.

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