Night of No Arms

It is a night of no arms.
I climb its legs.
I fight for its ear.
Even still my words bounce off the stars.
Flailing in a tangle of extremities,
I consider the notion of love.
It’s absurdity.
It’s insistence.
It’s cheeky advances.
It’s sudden recessions.
Recession is better than collapse.
Collapse happens upon the lovers.
They fight for air.
Recession is a slow gasp.
The lungs have a chance to catch up.
If I were to choose between collapse and recession,
recession is the kinder death.
But only if you believe love dies.
Which I don’t.
If it dies it never lived.
What lived by its name was something else.
What died was the wish for love to live.