We intersect other lives
at points that become
our fables.
We're trucks
when we think we're wind,
wind when we believe
we're soft and delicate breath.
We make altars
so we can worship
our desecration of them.
We pick roses so they'll die,
give gifts to lose their value.
We kiss to end the kisses,
make love to finish with
the lovemaking,
to prove we are not joined
permanently to others.
There's only so much love
to go around,
we figure.
We save ourselves for ourselves
and then share what's left over.