Friday, March 1, 2013

tell me about love



I'm writing a letter to a friend, 
answering her question: 
Tell me about love.

I'm telling her what 
Osho says about love. About its 
momentary quality--
that you can't put a 
contract on it. 

That it's more like a 
particular combination of 
paints 
that meld into a new color--
then eventually,
harden. 

At which point, it's time for a 
new moment. 
A new squeeze
from the tube. 

Sometimes you have lots of 
new moments 
with the same 
person for a really 
long time. 

Sometimes, 
you don't. 

But love doesn't care, 
either way. 

Love's not concerned with the 
who's or the 
how long's. 

It only cares that you melt.

And then the phone rings from 
South Dakota. 
And my heart sighs. And I 
smile deep--

A chance to become 
nothing, fading into each other, 
forgetting for a moment 
that we were ever made 
separate at all. 

Fifteen minutes of a 
rhythm so in-sync you'd 
think our hearts kept 
exactly the same pace. 

So I Google the question, 
"Do all human hearts keep 
exactly the same pace?" 

And I only get 
half-hearted answers 
that speak nothing of 
magic, nothing of 
togetherness, nothing of 
the implication 
that even as 
separate beings, 
distinguished matter, there's a 
song in us humans that 
is an us

It's how we were made. 
With metronomes of together 
in the center of our bodies--
An anthem that cries,
we are one

And I think, maybe, 
I could list a thousand ways 
that we're constantly 
trying to remember 
that song.