Tight like six feet of bandage.
White gauze stretched
over a thumping, weeping,
deliberate wound. One hollow drum,
until the rip and the pulse beats the tiniest hole,
large enough for all the rain outside
to leak, to drip, to trickle, and pour;
All for an exchange of your muffled sigh,
drowned beneath a history of clouds;
Deep enough for a child to never reach ground—
but so shallow, only your ankles get wet.
This is love.
This is the pitter, patter, split, throb, bump, pull, and fall.
This is love. And you are lucky to be here. Do not forget.

written on 09/06/2010 by: Matt Kane