Is love a declaration or an act?
I know you love me.
But you love me like
one loves a painting,
forgotten on your living room wall.
Or a film,
you’ve seen one too many times.
Your love is passive.
Analytic in it’s truth,
cold and sterile.
A recurrent statement,
to be spoken as you
walk out the door.
Not something to be touched,
to be experienced.
Your love unmakes me.
Your love strands me.
It leaves me entirely
alone.