Love is that scrap of charred flesh lying hidden in some corner of a darkened room, only its scent reaching you— search as you might, its presence never meets the eye.
Or perhaps, love is that alphabet of light which, before it can draw near, begins its beckoning toward blindness, forgetting one by one lazy afternoons, evenings meant for two, sometimes sitting in an empty swing watching the sky.
Now I understand— love has given me so much... brought me to myself, then spirited me away; the forest vanished, yet green rows everywhere; made me a bird, then stole the sky.