Love Comes
Brendan Sullivan
Love did not proclaim itself my savior and wait open-armed under my window at
midnight for my suffering to tenderly fall - one last impression upon the mattress like
some stranger's bad habits.
It did not gun me down in the street or slip a blade to carve my ribs, tabloid lust leaving
its fingerprints to console my enemies, my face flatlining against the heavens.
It did not roll and toss me into self-made dark or fitful dreams of couples merging knees
and elbows like cattle, angry and toiling against the thick trick of disguise
Instead it came clean sheeted tucked and cornered - cool and comforting like spring's
knowing glance and as arched and certain as the vibrant green sprouting from the thicket
of your smile.
Brendan Sullivan
Love did not proclaim itself my savior and wait open-armed under my window at
midnight for my suffering to tenderly fall - one last impression upon the mattress like
some stranger's bad habits.
It did not gun me down in the street or slip a blade to carve my ribs, tabloid lust leaving
its fingerprints to console my enemies, my face flatlining against the heavens.
It did not roll and toss me into self-made dark or fitful dreams of couples merging knees
and elbows like cattle, angry and toiling against the thick trick of disguise
Instead it came clean sheeted tucked and cornered - cool and comforting like spring's
knowing glance and as arched and certain as the vibrant green sprouting from the thicket
of your smile.
