A kind lover’s love
has a way of filling the gaps
in my order of things.
It cushions the seats.
It shines a sidewise gleam
through the curtain drapes.
It is the memory in a frame,
the sound of Nina Simone,
the candle flickering.
It is the soft throw
and the cotton pillow
on the windowsill.
It is the steam on the mirror
above the bathroom sink
and the heat between
duvet and skin.
It is the book on the tussled rug
and the note at the bottom stair
and the bare feet by the kitchen fridge
buffering the echo.
It is the second cup
that keeps filling.
Without it,
my life is metal beams
and vertical columns
crosshatched with wood
and steel girders,
which cannot weather the storm.
Without it,
my life is a building skeleton.
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