Love . . .

. . . becomes the softest sediment below
the coldest lake of tears as pure as ice
when sanity has nowhere left to go
and drowning is the ultimate device
of metaphoric words which wait, and wait
in solitude of grubby notebook sheets,
the stillness of a rescuer too late:
emotionless, unfathomed, more complete.
She holds my hand as if it were divine
and strokes the skin above my solemn wrist
to signify her yet unuttered “mine”
as I succumb with just the slightest twist,
as rings of water ripple through the scene
while neither lover knows what loving means.

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