The Obsessive Knitting of Love

mama might be proud that after all of my planting, i took up knitting. she would understand why i would use every part of me until i died, to knit love, because the obsession is my birthright. and yours.

his lips stilled when i spoke
he seemed to freeze, as if
my mouth had touched his
in a breathless kiss

i loved him in that stillness

his hands reached for mine
he seemed to shake, as if
my skin caressed his dreams
in a wordless touch

i loved him in that reach

his heart gripped my senses
in ways not known or sought

i loved him in that imbalance

his presence freed self-control
he seemed to know, as if
my need excused his want
in a yearning gaze

i loved him in that rein

his hurt grieved my soul
in ways not heard or seen

i loved him in that tenderness

unable to contain my inability
to stroke his wounds
i sang songs

that overheard could be
compared to howling
at the moon

his life pulsates in mine
he seems to run, as if
my love smothers his air
in a borrowed taste

i love him in that nervousness

i crave for his peace

i melt the bars of his prison
with the warmth of my passion

we visit across the glass
pick up the phone
saying nothing

we are reassured
the love past is
love’s presence

i hang up the phone
smiling and crying
we walk away

we never let go
love is spiritually astute
not requiring our unremarkable humanity to fulfill itself

wheresoever we may perceive failure has zero effect on love’s finite success

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