The Love You Take
And in the
end, there’s no mistake
a dozen
gifts, returned
to him without
receipt
is equal to
the love you make.
Brought
there by small unhappy feet
that staccato,
on hard green tiling,
these objects
that need filing,
into
overstuffed desk drawer
under
presents and pasts.
Some gold,
rolled, small enough for ears
that need no given rings,
gleam guilt without glistening,
when hearing is not listening.
The clock strikes half
past caring,
so three friends come
bearing
sanitizer, a half-emptied container,
because if
she is no longer sane,
well, who
could really blame her
hereafter?
Some stifled laughter,
hand over
the mouth just after,
because it’s
serious all the same.
Offers money in balanced banking,
to give back, in given gift,
his love a final
ranking,
but some music
in her voice knocking,
all reeling
heads and pity, mocking
the exit
stage left, her final straw,
chest freezer
dumped outside his door,
entrance
in need of blocking.
Until, at
last, his temper flashed,
impatience like snapping elastic,
he shouts: ‘so
put them in the trash’,
as if some
mistakes were made to last.
Later hears
footsteps trip hard floor,
she comes in
light fantastic,
returns for
gold within his drawer.
But what about
the love you take?
He writes beside
an artificial lake,
unsure if
palms are real or fake.
❤️😍😍🙏🙏
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