What

Begins when everything ends: Love
vestiges of lust, evolving with a hint
of truth; written in many, many forms
of blood, from blood as ink, ink of blood
drip, drip, dripping from a heart
worn, aching --- ready to relinquish
its claim upon your sleeve.

There are many measures of love.
A heart contrite, for one. And two, a hand
reaching out into the eye of the storm
that exists for us both: similar and not the same,
differing in minute details: the intensity perhaps,
what it picks up along the way, debris, the chip off
a shoulder, baggage lugged  from one continent to another.

Love
has been written about elsewhere before
rewritten and rewritten but can never
claim to be rewritten no more,
perhaps by myself, wary and yet dauntless ---
as a way maybe of moderating desires or
questioning them:

Do I love you, for example; or
Do I love me with you that's why I do love you?
You and not you when you are with me?
Or what you do to me?
Now that I've shrugged off the fear
of what could be and may and will happen,
I will let love be[gin].