Love is the finger pointing at the moon.
Love is an action, you said in the kitchen, face inscrutable.
Ask me what actions, I could tell many.
“Petals on a wet, black bough,” you said.
The action of speaking into the corners of my heart, the music in the kitchen, the knowing, the knowing now, that you would read of my French adventures while I was walking through the night of the deserted Montmartre.
Paris meanders.
The dark, the cold, the fear, the belle pomme de boscop in the market, the smell of chestnuts in the Metro.
Harrowed days, wet, cold feet, in Paris, grey Paris, painful Paris.
Paris without you.
Alone.
Actions taken though.
Writing every day.
Photographs.
Amelie soundtrack in my head, but speeded up and laced with electronic beats, watching the tracks criss cross the yards through the windows fleeing past on Metro line 2.
Spoken word at the Le Chat Noir.
Men fighting on the train.
Pickpockets.
Romani children with dark eyes and thick, caterpillar eyelashes, red patched cheeks and cupid bow lips.
You stole my heart and put it in your pocket.
I’m not asking for it back.
In the morning, wrapped around you as the blush of day descends upon us.
In the space between alarm clocks and the awakening moment, my nose in your neck, your hand on my shoulder, all time, compressed upon me.
All time that was.
All time that is to become.
The soft, worn, used Camus book.
Summer in Algiers.
The colors, the water, the press of of literature in my eyes, lines singe my brain, I’m not a girl that misses much, sitting at the formica table in your desk chair.
(remember when you used to covet retro formica kitchen tables)
What do you need?
I need you, you said, so I crawled up into your bed.
Watching you.
Enigmatic you.
When you smile easy and fast.
When you smile to show me that you are paying attention.
Different the two.
The language that points to love.
The love language of acts, contritions, absolutions.
The mirror under my footsteps.
The reflection of you writing in a cafe watching me sitting in the window nook–mesmerized, the passerby clouds, the daydreams.
Your hands on the keyboard.
My hands.
You are writing somewhere while I write another where and the words breast against one another, what a day, what a day, oh, what a day.
When you grabbed me by the shoulders, said my name, tears welled up in your eyes.
Did you feel the tears?
The look in your eyes.
Love is an action.
The pause between my name.
And.
“I love you.”
The comma that made it all the more profound.
Love is the finger pointing to the moon, the pillow of my heart, the soft soul shine of you.
So pretty this.
You.
Moon.
Love.
Auntiebubba 