There’s no sense in love.
Where it blooms; on whom it falls.
Viewed from the distance of
Years and familiarity
That keening, done in separation
That craven blood burst pulsing in temple and heart and groin
Is both ridiculous and yet
and is what began it all.
It’s the derangement of that first
Our past madness, sustains us.
Crepuscular; thickened of waist and thigh;
Stretched and marked by life.
We two worn, odd, old shoes
polished and buffed into similarity.
Differences scuffed and worn
until we shine with the same light.