Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Love Was Not Meant To Be A Science
Most of all I miss her sarcasming spirit laughter,
acidic and ticklish love screaming
all over my thoughts
my face and my hands
my time here among the walkers, runners, and flyers.
Fingertips trailing from back to chest,
the nails etching their trail between the worn
out highways and walkways that made us
so much more than a metaphor for use.
If there is a thermodynamic equation that explains this,
tell me now so I can write poetry about the Science
of Love and read it to her when I follow her.
They say she'll never know now,
but I can act and dream like that they are wrong.
She'd like that most, I think.
That, and the title of this poem.