When we speak of love,
valley girl texting,
prophet stranded at the peak,
thinking the way back to birth from death,
we speak of a word,
read along unprinted scripts of its definition,
and experience love in every way but truly.
Love is too much for one or two lines.
Vast enough to fill up encyclopedias.
Vastly human enough still to speak no consequence.
Love is this. Love that. Love moves.
Love accomplishes. Being more than four ignorant letters,
If love lives it is only by way of minds, close by hearts,
where the word defies all definitions. And if one matches,
even slightly, it catches our disease and will surely die.
For love to be love it must not be love.
No more lettered shapes scratch translated into meaning.
It must deny, put down, rise up from the demise, stood tall
feet cold against the ash from all the pages people have filled,
believing they cast a revealing light on love,
when really they were marrying sparks to fuel.