Love is not a thing that sings anymore to me.
It’s not a elegant bird or a soft kiss.
It’s not the waxing and waning of the ocean tide in the pitch black.
It’s not a quiet night in, or the way her dress sways against her hips when she thinks I can’t see her dancing.
It’s not an open field, or box of old pictures found in the attic.

It’s fistful’s of hair. It’s crying in my passenger seat. It’s the things that make my phone ring so early in the morning. Because everyone and everything is at war, my love, and most of us are unbearably alone no matter who we wake to.

And keeping our past from haunting us is like keeping a cat off the kitchen table.