Love is nothing more than breakability
of human skin. The way breath
is whiskey and exodus. This evening
a sky of sapphire, beneath me the wry
squelch of a disappointed monsoon.
If you were to ask me why I’m seeking
a definition of love, I’d come up blank.
Lay the blame on seasons. Tell you
I’ve barely slept these past three nights,
consumed by the disappearance of blue
whales, the annihilation of my favourite
cities, the way grapes these days
resemble squishy ghosts, how every
modern song is the train wreck
of an autotuned ending. A couple
across the street is arguing over milk.
The billboard with the one lazy eye
winks in neon resignation. Nightbirds
swoop by on screeching bikes. Lying
awake, I think of a few long-ago
summers. I take a swig from last night’s
wine and mumble along to Cohen.
Orion’s up there somewhere and in
a few million years, even stardust
will be fickle, voluntary. Something like
sleep. Or—now that I think of it—love.