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 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.