Love was a chandelier with all candles
lit. We turned it around and danced as light
bounced off the walls. Love was scarves of red and
gold thrown in the air as we waltzed through rooms.
Love in the hallway mirror multiplied.
Love was seen crossing streets when afternoon
classes were through. Others ran the backyard
shortcuts. Love strolled the circuitous routes.
But love is a word. Write it down and
throw it away. Write LOVE on paper and
tear it up. Better still, write GRIEF in your
best handwriting and watch flames consume it.
Tattered scarves of red and gold lie beneath
a dusty mirror which reflects mute tones.
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