Is this love?
I want to spend all my time with you.
Except for when I’m writing, or taking a lonely walk, or hanging out with my brother, or otherwise here and there I need to just feel you in the back of my heart like a beacon guiding me with strong clear light steadily back home where we are one together.
I want to share everything I am with you.
I want to go to the movies with you and put my arm over your shoulders, even though it is a little uncomfortable on top of the curving metal chairs.
I want to make love to you and know you forever.
Is this love?

Who are you?
What part of you is calling to me?
Am I just being silly selfish boring typical?

You shimmer like heat rising from a desert rock.
I’d catch you but you sift up and around my tremble-tense fingers.

When can we love each other?
When can we get away?
When can we make it real?
Why should we bother?
Given there’s so many men and so many women?
What’s our justification for choosing one another?

Who are you?
I can’t find you.
You feel like the scurried rattle rustle of leaves when a tiny dustdevil twirls them up on its magic finger.
When I was a kid on a cool fall morning watching the blackasphalt street outside my redbrick rowhouse.

I’d love you if I could.
I’d love you if we would.
I love you if we should.
I want a should.
Or at least that it is fine and dandy and there’s plenty of shoulds left over we can tend to in good faith while cuddling.

Is this love when the wind tussles the treetops outside a long lonely window in another floating box house a million years from your fingers accepting mine?

authors: some lonely town
copyright: AMW