I am not in love.
But I have love in my life.
I might not have tender arms wrapped around my waist.
But I have the feeling of refilling my pen,
I have arguments with kind conversationalists,
I have the turning of the last page in a book,
I have my grandmother’s laugh, my mother’s handwriting
and my father’s cologne.
I might not have soft lips pressed gently against mine.
I might not have stolen glances, sweaty hand holds and fairy
tale drama.
I might not have the passionate amazing crazy Sunny-D kind
of sensual love I like to pretend I can write about.
But I have love.
Pure love,
not from concentrate.
