My Love

is a weight on my chest,
years off my life,
a white flag, a Jolly Roger,
it is a buried map,
with no map to find it.
My love is the pounds I’ve shed
the words I’ve read,
my love is the hours, the minutes,
and sometimes, the seconds.
My love is thorough,
the moon across my window,
black sleep, just waiting
for me to open my eyes.
My love is on the soles of my feet
in the people I meet,
the lines on the street,
wet and unmoving.
My love is the bottom of a bottle,
it is fire, ash, my wasted money,
a new shirt, prayer, superstition,
Japanese tradition, a lonely eye,
poison, my love is
a recipe, a diet, painfully quiet.
My love is an excuse,
it checks and re-checks,
those letters, those words,
the memory of you
slashed across my heart.


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