love is: (noun, formal)
a method of expressing the care and joy
you feel towards others

love is not a fairytale ending
the prince doesn’t marry the prince
saved from the wicked stepmother
or the dragon hoarding gold
the wounded fox does not
heal his missing eye, or turn back into a beautiful young man
from true love’s kiss
he remains the same battered, tired old soul
having learned that kindness exists



love is: a warm bowl of soup
entangled fingers in a crowded area
smiling across the coffee shop to share a private joke
they say love can only mean between two people
those who are of one soul in one body couldn’t understand it
when there are many people sharing one form
love becomes this blurry, wonderful thing
there is nothing that can mend our scars
individual ones from moments that exploded
like so many fragments of glass, leaving
behind little x-shaped sutures on us
and big ones, scarred over from reopenings
the ones that we mind daily, since they’re poorly
sewn shut with thread and wire



you kiss every scar and cut that lines our knuckles and arms
and they exist. they simply exist like
the stars hang silent and frozen in the sky
they do not come down from their seats for anyone
you don’t want to rearrange constellations; you just skim your fingers
lightly against the wounds that hurt
not to reopen, but to reassure
they feel glaring and open and as
freshly bloody as the day we got them,
as if everybody can only see the broken glass at our feet
and not the panes that survived
you take each arm outstretched as if we could fly
and tell us lightly that it’s like housing drywall-
nobody notices the cracks and chips unless they’re looking for it



i joke that you could’ve at least compared it to ceramic
and your smile is all i ever want back in return



all of me loves all of you
in a way that only plural folks understand
we are galaxies, kintsugi, pixel art
made up of dozens of individual pieces
that form a greater picture
the painting we create together looks a lot like
us entwined on the couch in a rainy morning
and you’ve spilled your breakfast, and we
are laughing while i clean it
and my coffee has gotten cold
and i’ve never felt more content



love is: (noun, plural)
tracing all of the scars you find and kissing each one tenderly
forgetting to make dinner until 3 am
holding each other until you come back from the immaterial plane
safe and sound, aware of where you are
you cannot fix us, & we cannot fix you
and we do not need to be fixed; we are pottery
fine the way we are, refired and reglazed and
decorated and repaired with new clay
gently and by hand
the damage has been done, and that’s alright
there is nothing sweeter than your arms around me
while i choke on another part of me’s cologne
and we do our best to chip away the previous glaze left on us together



all of me loves all of you
every single chip and crack is filled with liquid gold
there is nothing more pure and serene
than the soup of love brewed by so many
everybody lines up to the potluck to contribute their best ingredient,
and mine is: frozen waffles



sometimes, i so dearly treasure the fantasy i hold
gently in my hands, like a solar system
it’s of us so entwined we never have to
be separated again, never considered two separate
bowls, but one big one with intricate carvings
love is understood best from the perspective of
all of the little ways each of us love each other
the matching notes each chord plays
to compose a gentle duet
though i am sure of a single mind the melody is pretty;
i am confidant that our symphony played by many
is ten thousand times more beautiful