I do not claim to know the shapes of love:
Do cotton cumuli hearts manifest?
Perhaps it’s that I’m cautious, wary of
My heartbeat sounding nothing like the rest.
Because no frames of reference may be found,
It could be that I don’t know how love’s done;
My wax it melts and settles on the ground;
As I am Icarus, I’m my own sun.
No feathers left; impossible to fly
Without direction, flight’s forever lost
With intervention I shall skim the sky
As I become the Me that love forgot
I may not know the curvature of love
But I shall board the flight till life takes off.
Art: Erik Wilson