Love is a caesura.
A blank in the word,
a precipice of flesh.
For each consonant
a pleasure — round
as a ripple, penetrative
as sound.
It falls white
on black, like snow,
settles where it falls,
and melts the lines.
Moves within the text
as blood runs to
the heart, hitting
bones. Letter
of stone — letter
of bone, in your stasis
opens its fragile
parenthesis.
Without it, dark letter
you stand
erect — unrealized.
To its caress you offer
a quivering ratio.
For love only drives you
to the edge —
Love only crosses you
out.

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