What is love but the leftovers

after the plates and dishes

of the soul

the scraps and spills

and the dirty wine glasses

lipsticked rims

have been cleared away

That, is love.

What is love but the remains

after the war and torn bodies

have gone back to the earth

and the machines are silent

smoke is only left as a smell

and the skeletons turn to dust

That, is love.

What is love but the bottom

after great oceans

tumultuous with waves

and heaving heights of froth and gloom

have all been evaporated

and the containers are emptied

There, is love.

What is love but the silence

not between the beats

but absence of any beat

after the orchestra has left

and all the people have gone home

in the dirty, empty pit and in the painted heavens

There, is love.