There is a kind of love that does not speak.
On hopeless Sunday evenings, it creates
A scratchy nest of silence with just enough friction
For two bodies to feel warm, without touching.

There is a kind of love that resides
In questions rendered extinct:
A kind that might be captured
In slow-moving film. It rarely bends.
Will not let go. Feels cheated by drama.
And has no narrative structure, whatsoever.

There is a kind of love that rests, between covers
Crumpled in muggy summer sleep. Pull away,
Just a bit. To watch the mess of limbs
Twist a new sculpture into being.