Love and Other Concerns
To be loved,
Is to be confused.
It’s receiving roses without thorns,
And looks without scorn.
The feeling of melting in someone’s arms,
While being unarmed.
It’s being afraid of the dark,
But knowing the moon shines afar.
The wind that brushes hair from your face,
Making your life suffice.
The moth that’s usually drawn to the flame,
Waits by the porch light to hear you say its name.
The glitter on the floor you can’t get rid of,
The thread in the cloth that you stitch.
The one you get to keep secret,
Safely tucked away in your pocket.
Even if their mention never leaves your tongue,
They still make you think you’re enough.
Because they’re job is to confuse you,
And to never leave you.
Because even after they’re gone,
They still linger on.
In the perfume that they wear,
And in the roses that they share.
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