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 works
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.


3 comments:

eric1313 said...

Another tribute to a lost friend.

I think these things, remember these people, then write the thoughts down. By now I truly know that I'll never run out of material; life keeps me fresh supplied. I just have to be honest and follow my heart in writing it down.

Cloudia said...

"They say she'll never know now,
but I can act and dream like that they are wrong."

The fulcrum of the work! Thanks for sharing

eric1313 said...

Yes! It only came around after a couple of editing passes, too. When you have the full length, breadth and depth of your idea of the work (a poem in this case) in mind, some of the words and phrases used to achieve your vision appear then and only then, after truly working with the raw material of the idea and stitching it out.

Thank you for reading here!