What I Love

What I love
Is the pain that blossoms along the thin line of awareness
And the slow obstinacy of a brooding pigeon;

What I love
Is the misunderstandings and the cross-purposes,
Malice and imagined wrongs.

What I love
Comes out of nowhere, like an unseen desperate wasp,
Jackknifing in my shoe, stinging hard.

What I love
Cannot be counted or brooked, insured or ensured,
Broken or fixed.

What I love
Is you, and you, and you, and you, and if you think I cannot,
You don't know me. Or you.

I cannot say
I will know you better. Or I will love you forever. Because
I have already loved you forever,

Dear friend. Forever.