So what about true love.

Can I write it out,
articulate its particularity?
Would I know it to see it?
Have I engaged with it directly,
or happened upon it by chance
like a bristle of the brush
while I walk in the woods unaware?

Perhaps I’ve missed it altogether,
maybe I have it in my hand
it could be right underfoot
my feet firmly planted
holding it down –
or it could require closer inspection
carefully peeling back
all the variant membranes
to understand its nature.

I could be traveling toward it
a slow steady pace
or hurdling forward light speed
losing coats of time and dimensionality
as it crafts and forms out there in the nothingness
ready to be whole by the time I arrive.

Or it could be
that gnawing
sustained groan
the feeling that rubs
and rubs some more
a call
and when I feel it
my heart creaks
and my soul bends outward
so far extending toward you
I taste the kiss
that swallows me whole.

It’s become
my base foundational vibration
you are always in the mix of the fabric
a red thread pulled throughout
potentially a central line
embedded in the weave
and if I start to tug
it slowly pulls everything apart
a tenuous unwinding
attached to all my sticky bits
my unmovable patterns
my repeat offenders.

And then it becomes obvious –
the things I crave
what I love and love about love
the itch I am always trying to scratch
everything I seek and gaze and poke at
my wild yearnings and all that I’ve lost
pulling at the sleeve of my desire
the cat chasing its tail –
I wonder again about true love
because when I look in your endless beautiful face
I see everything I love
and
when I see you
I see me, and then I know
it’s my own cry into the wild wood I chase
my own true self,
the real true love.