Love Story
Missed Connections in Montréal
Love Story
I walked home in a haze that night
with that ghetto-blaster cradled like a baby
and every thing I didn’t know how to do
swirling around in the music –
Everything is symbolic in hindsight
roots grow around stones in the soil
like we did, I guess
stumbling from drama
finding warmth in the cocoons
we built.
I am thankful for every welt
because beneath them lays the love
I never want to forget
the kind that just happens
for no reason at all.
Her Two Cents
I’ve recently finished reading Carol Rifka Brunt’s novel, Tell the Wolves I’m Home. It’s a most terrible love story about terrible love. Love that is so intense, so powerful, that it both creates and destructs all whom succumb to it. There are many different kinds of love that can be experienced, but none compare. Fortunate and unfortunate at the same time, the holder of this love becomes the memory-keeper for all the remaining years to come.
