The Death of Love

 

Is our love quantifiable,
can it be counted like the grains of sand which run with ease through our fingers.
Can it be quaffed like a fine wine.
Are we defined by each others love.

 

Do we dissect each moment examining it carefully turning it this way and that;
was there enough passion,
enough intimate meals,
enough words;
never enough words.

 

You never change in my eyes.
You told me I used to be beautiful;
I thought I still was; through love laced eyes.
It was said quietly almost a whisper and with such nonchalance.
I asked if you meant it.. you said "Yes."
My love died.
How fervently you deny those words now,
but they are forever spoken; forever heard.

 

Do I make you happy;
You make me sad.
Do I give enough of me;
You never do.
Do you love me;
I know you do.

 

If I could quantify our love
I would measure it in moments;
A 500 moment jigsaw.

 

I would hope by the end it would be complete.
That it would not become deconstructed;
but there will always be that one piece that does not fit.
That cruel moment of brutality;
and no matter which way you turn that piece it will never fit.

 

© 2018 Taylor Crowshaw.