With the eagerness to please, we may own
the eagerness to receive.
And often love will miss an arm, a leg, your chest,
a few molecules here and there.
Slow love arrives with the purpose and precision
of a crack on a frozen lake,
with the enticing denial of a kiss,
it is hidden in the plain Jane-ness of a haiku
when 50 years down the lane with a shiver up your spine
three lines you had read in your youth
reveal to you
the majestic labour of an entire epic.
And then you will not need to run to others to let them know
that you have found it.
Your being will glow for a thousand miles
as weary travelers with soles calloused by chase
will trudge to you
and lick your skin for a holy experience.
Their tongues will rasp flesh off your bones,
grate you to dust
and teach you that to be remembered
you had to be forgotten first.
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