I don’t see love in the form of moving pictures on a screen,
The kind of love that is received with dancing near glowing lampposts, and the four-letter word is whispered and constant, like static,
Love seems to arrive in fleeting glimpses that occur with the birth of unexpected events and circumstances,
I once saw love embedded in the cracks on a city sidewalk blooming beside a weed, only more destructive and potent,
I once saw love hidden beneath that jagged rushed words of a sentence that was so foul it had to be spat out as if the taste was unbearable,
“I Hate You.”
I caught love drifting through the opened curtains of a man’s eye, before hiding in the dark recesses of his pupil, replaced with regret,
I glimpsed at love furrowed beside the ridges of human calluses that were shaped by their actions,
Love once looked stoically at me from where it was eroded into the crevices of purpled mountains after being brought to life by the gentle caress of the wind and the cleansing tears of rain,
I saw love intertwined with the permanent musings of ink, refusing to disappear or dilute in the words of “I hope this letter finds you restless, as you’ve always wanted to be.”
I know a man, who says that he has never seen love,
Although I could hear it whispering, in the crescendos of the wind.