I love in cursive-
in a way that’s practiced and precise but rarely of any use.
The apricot is still full even after it is emptied.
The mourning dove is already assumed to live a life of sorrow
long before it watches any of its relatives die.
In abandoned hotel rooms I pretend to be sleeping together with myself
so the rain will remind me of something other
than the way two people initially fall hard in love
then gradually stop falling until the only way down
is through the floor.
When the only man I ever saw beneath the exoskeleton,
(and by exoskeleton I mean clothes),
left with everything but his first name,
I gave up trying to learn to love in print.
There are just too many anomalies, cursive among them-
the skyscraper only pretends to scrape the sky
when in reality no one even knows where the sky ends
and the ground begins.
The one time you get struck by lightning
is also the one time you figured it wouldn’t be a problem.
Just like the one time I fell in love
was also the one time I figured
I would be able to fall back out.