On The Disappearance of Love.

It began as simply as nature v. nurture, the Spider and
the Fly and the sylvan. One world as distant as another,
striding along the string theory and a hole where
the universe used to be.
It was kind and cruel and mystery and terror and belligerence
and bellflowers and pity and regret and longing and
the rhythm of a hummingbird's heart as it palpitates.
It was a letter to someone else's lover with no name
and no face, tone carried in the steady pace of
anger to irony to guilt to drudgery to indifference
to the men and women reluctant to hear
their wine glasses agree. Love was
Dead the moment God gave us free will.
It was the matter of giving life to something
like a bridge on fire, then explaining to an absent
Judge your apologies. For all its burning glory,
it was the artful majesty in impalement; the
awkwardness found only in remembrance and
phosphorescent shimmers of atrocity and salvation
and secret virtues never spoken. He wondered if he could lose
Himself under the indication of permanent twilight.
Love
slid out from this world to the next as easily as the Fly devoured
out of nature, synonymous with the sins no one can help
but, to adore. It was the soldier who had died for war
to save itself from dying of embarrassment.