This not knowing what love is thing
isn't really about love at all.

Its about self
and the childish craving
for completion that flows
from the bedrock belief
that I'm a broken toy
you can fix
with your eyes and heart and pussy.

I got a good dose of it
this last month,
when what I thought I needed
didn't happen

and I panicked,

before slowing down,
taking a breath,
and noticing
you were doing
the same damn thing
as me.

These moments of clarity
come like flowers in Spring,
though if you never get past
the screaming cadence
of unexamined truth,

it may as well
be dead of winter
all year long.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...