Love

Twelve manifestations of the twelfth day.

Some incomplete poems that I wrote, or tried to, throughout the years for her.

She still surfaces sans summoning.

They are loves that survive on the love of others.

Gabriel, drinking from the fountain of love, imagined dying.

I will prove to the world that love yields nothing but the raw essence of autonomy.

It’s a summer mismeeting, a mismeeting of people and their things.

Am I? No. I was!

But within Sara’s gaze the world grows still.

You are not a half, nor a shadow of another.

A butterfly landed on my chest, like one who settles into an old couch, where everything has already been waiting.

After she flew, the garden remained.