How should we gauge our love?
Should we use a tape measure
and lay mine out next to yours,
and, if they are close, then we walk away
happy, or happier?
Or is it a liquid not unlike blood,
so a cup is needed? I pour mine out,
crimson and shiny, and you let yours
drip slowly until, again, we are close.
It doesn’t have to match, you know.
It could even be a question of tests,
tests of pain, just enough that the heart aches,
but not enough to kill, just enough to cry,
but not enough to hate, and if it doesn’t die
it makes it stronger.
I could never just let it be. Coming from the land
of prophets, and olives and their oils, I had to inflame it
till it ran hot in my veins and seared my days and nights
with its passion, finally burning through the hearts
like blow burns through an addict’s nose.
But what if it isn’t measurable, quantifiable,
only felt, sensed, like a breeze, or a fresh breath,
not forceful or overpowering but strong enough
to make its presence known, and mild enough
not to scare us away; a state I could never attain.
