Love At...

more than see:

the we in you

tugged at

the we in me-

and the rumblings of

any missing pieces (to be found)

any sought out spaces (to be more)

any conjured faces (to be held)

thrummed insistent,

winding down and woven round-

making the space between us

tight and fizzy until-

"hi, may i"

and "would you"

became bubbles of possibility

floating on "yes"-

magic begets magic;

and we walked into

a night white with

snow so big

it fell warm.

a story told

for some while,

then not-

made heavy with

silver-glinted shards,

too loose stitches,

and piles of salt-

the love at first

become the love at worst:

the me in we

could not breathe

with the you in we-

there was too much miss to be found,

not enough space to fill any sought,

and i could not hold the sad and scared of the small faces-

"we are done"

made its frothy assert

and stretched long-

a white bubbling loathe

of self

between us.

still,

magic begets magic;

snow still falls,

sometimes so big

it is warm-

i will not take that smile from myself

and with the rest winding round the past

and woven into am-

i can hold the sad and scared and happy of the faces

i can sing in the space of seek

i can gather and own my pieces:

the i of me

can look at

the me of i

(and just maybe,

the you of you)

with a love at more sight,

filled out with

more than see.