I cut a pink rose with my pocket knife from its place in the sun on its vine,  although I've heard that one is not to do it, and I lay it on my shrine. 

I'll tell you plainly from all that I've known that no one can know the end. And love grows messily from the very marsh that months stem. 


And the memory is a leaking dam that prefers sunset all-around, and one can cry a river of greenest depth and still not drown. 


And the heart is a cracked canteen, and like a bird it keens, and reaches for the least and the most expected things.


Love can be an ache that makes it difficult to breathe. A strange offspring that I nurse within me. It does  not suggest or advise. It's simply stubbornly alive, devising and demanding that I feed it.