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love should not be allowed to be a word

it is too big.

it is too big and too heavy

to be held in the delicate grasp

of four small letters.

we are cheated

when “love” is attached to this and to that



is it a passionate moment

your first childhood friend

devotion of a life to another

attraction to pain

a figment of our small imaginations?

and does each version of love stir in us the same emotions

or do they sit worlds apart?

should they?

love should not be allowed to leave our lips

if only to be used lightly,

because its meaning becomes jaded and weightless.

there should be seventy-three thousand, four hundred and eight words to use

rather than love

so that everyone knows what one another are talking about;

then again, my blue is your periwinkle

and your summer my winter.



when we are all out of breath

sick and tired of trying to figure out what love really means

(or is supposed to mean, feel, look like, taste like, smell like)

there sits love

waiting for us

bigger than it has ever been before


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