isn’t love?

didn’t they say that love was all we needed?

weren’t they right?

isn’t love all we need to be warm at night, to have something to lean into?

isn’t love all we need to make our legs quiver and our checks flush?

isn’t love all we need to get us through the day?

isn’t love that sweet cup of morning coffee?

isn’t love a long, slow drag on your very last cigarette?

isn’t love that feeling you get when you stretch under the covers, and you feel the life spread all the way down to your toes and you can hear the ocean in your ears and your eyes scrunch up tight and your gentle hands make tired fists and someone leans over the mussed up wrinkled make-up-smeared pillow that smells like his cologne and kisses you on the place where your lips meet your cheek?

isn’t love a shaggy-haired sad sap playing Hallelujah on an acoustic guitar?

isn’t love the way the asphalt smells after the rain?

isn’t love stumbling home in the early morning on dawn streets, warm with bourbon kisses, ears numb from live music?

isn’t love break-up sex?

isn’t love make-up sex?

isn’t love a forlorn glance across a crowded sea of wayward souls?

isn’t love unrequited?

isn’t love star-crossed?

isn’t love a W. H. Auden poem?

isn’t love enough?

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