It’s a maddly presumption that one lover wins
while the other one loses.
I will take you to my grave.
This is merely (oh so much!)
love suspended, unbalanced and
incapable of thriving the gamble lost.
“She was extending a hand that I didn’t know how to take,
so I broke its fingers with my silence.”
So, we spoke of surviving the death of love
over arrowed shots of bourbon and agreed,
both hands will remain broken despite time’s
illusion as a healer.
Love does not exist in time.
Love exists in the penultimate strokes of the soul
where a clock is as likely to ring an alarm
in the middle of the night
or the midst of coffeed business
as the sensation of the ring
recalls, no longer on your finger
which was severed to the compost heap
of your heart and soul
as recently as a moment ago
cultivated like a pearl
in years of trauma.
Quote from Jonathan Saf