Love is accidentally dropping someone from a three-story window
and then rushing to the bottom of the stairs
to see if they survived the fall.
J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote that not all those who wander are lost,
and even those few stars who have strayed from the pack
are able to find their ways back again.
Love is building a ladder to help someone climb up out of despair,
hand over hand, rung by rung.
How else do you think Rapunzel climbed back up into her tower
after the first time she escaped?
Our bodies are small wars that can never be won,
no matter how much ammunition we buy.
But love is the way a dress unzips from top to bottom
like the unfolding of a butterfly’s wings,
ready to bloom into light.
Love is a lament, an incantation whispered under streetlights
by tired soldiers
plodding their way home.