how love grows

If the heart can grow without wrenching, I have not known it.

Many chances, and I have not learned it

Mine, it seems, grows only by tearing.

 

I tell myself–savor, savor,

but sleep instead

 

Without scarring I do not wake

until each Eden is memory

 

A loss, a ripping away, a pulling

as I must go and my heart stays.

goodbyes, again.

 

In the raw aftermath, new love takes root

Itself to tear, to grow, in time.

 

Despite my founded fear I dare not withdraw,

become stone against the stabbing

 

If love is loss, it has still reward enough, I think.

(Or perhaps the next tear will rip too deep to heal.)

 

Only, through my dreams,

memories shout–savor, savor

 

And if there is gentler love, I have not known it.

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