for jw~

Write me a love poem, you said.
Words are brittle.
They get pinned
to reference points in whirling mind mists
or like a missing slash on a t, rankle long after.
Meanings can morph.
take on no-name pastel hues and shades.
Flutter free like a psychedelic butterfly,
Or bear the brunt of dry afternoon sun, shrivel, fold into themselves.

Write me a love poem, you said.
words define, tie in, set a boundary; like a barbed wire fence.
Is infinity really eight letters long?
a milky swirl of pinpoint stars and galaxies
all encompassing, alive?
Doesn’t precious have a number value you’d put to it ? Does it?
What about faith? The Indian one, asthaa?
Forget it. I shan’t even try define.
It is what it is.

But write me a love poem, you said.
Words of endearment, yearning, longing, waiting
much quoted, bandied about, like scrabble pieces
random
Or stale smoke in a closed room, tawdry.
Meanings disappear in tiny crevices between letters.
Helpless. Proud. I look away.
It is. What it is.