My love is an itchy phantom limb
It is reaching for words and only gasping for breath in air
It is my ninth birthday party
It is half-memory, and half that photograph on the fridge
My love is puzzle left in the rain, strewn about like a windchime
too soggy to make all the parts fit together
like that photograph on the fridge
My love is possessive adjectives
It is "Are You Up Yet?"
It is "Is There Coffee at Home?"
It is "There's A Lot of Work to Do Today"
My love is so hungry
It is reaching for words
on the top of a cupboard
with no stepping-stool
My love wonders if it has an expiration date
It wonders whether love itself has expired
My love wonders why it's always compared to food in your vocabulary
Spicy. Hot. Sizzle.
My love wonders whether love is a game
and whether the fittest player loses.