Love is the restless, constant verb.
that moves as breath within a sleeping ribcage,
pulsating without permission, without applause,
the small machinery of giving life,
made in tender moments unrecorded.

I have watched it move fluid
in the morning light of a kitchen,
in the breakfast turning of
cup and bowl and plate
into this feast of embrace,
that we have all shared.

It is a leaning-toward in a house
we build by living in it whole.
And under it all, the soft fact:
that you are mortal, that I am,
that the light on your skin and
your breath are borrowed from the sky,
returnable, and your flesh a loan from the dust,
but still I choose it,
still I turn the cup, the bowl,
the plate for you,
still I look beyond where the day ends,
past, even, where I end.

 

13/6/2026