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What does love look like?

Is it a beautiful woman sharing

the topography of her pearl silk smooth breasts?

Being deep inside her with

emotions crashing at high tide?

Or is it an old woman

Wrinkled and fragile

paper thin membrane

of blood bruised skin.

Her cold hand framed in

winter twigs and hazy

irises and yellowing corneas

blood shot spider

webs

Lids

melting like erosion

to the ground.

The woman who knew

You before you did.

Or the full body tackling hug of a

daughter who knows

and breathes what,

for now,

is your omniscience

and strength.

Like the devout

Kneeling before "God".

She looks up at you

making faces inspiring

your hope to worthiness.

Or, the woman whose

scent was your first

and is the beginning

of the pain and emptiness

because every inhalation

is not

that

first.

And you remember

what you did not know.

Is it the person

or the idea

the experience

or the reality,

if there is such a thing,

the light of sight

the blackness of memory.

Or the silent air

entering

peacefully and fully

a mosaic

you

can

sense

only

now?