On getting love, flow things unsaid, unwritten; when all is expressed, exposed, exhausted. A current brings the numinous energy hidden in the words one never dares to say. 

Upon getting love, the structure is revealed, spinal revelation, backbone held, head up straight, upon getting love (for love, for love).

Architecture of feelings, positioning of  columns, restoration of temple, concert of strong separate pieces; there surely is some division that leads to love. A world cut in two. For some, it matters not to be on the opposite side, what matters is the building of a bridge.

On getting love, some love, some chosen love, there is a place for the unknown, reached vertebra after vertebra (after vertebra).

On giving love, there is still room for those things of me that I cannot see , there is some space revealed and, on giving love, purpose inhabits it, a lighter prose, some given love enlightens that other me, that forgiven love.

Forgetting love (it happens sometimes), is like a mask: oniric, beautifully grotesque, pornographic, omphalopsychic, invites to the spectacle while diverting the gaze simultaneously. Forgotten love, a fleeting juncture, an orgasmic sadness; it happens sometimes, but here we are.

Upon regretting love, numb silence falls, upon the absence, the spineless violence of stolen words that still look me in the eye. And somehow, bomb words leave shells, licked by caressing waves, of nothing special, seas of transformation, where abundance writes sun nets, where splintered light is caught mirroring a smile.

Love found by chance: click, a young girl plays knucklebones in the shade, a timeless smirk in the early afternoon.