When my thoughts turn to love, they point at you.
I want you, and imagine all that could be—
And then, to bridge the gap between the two,
I try to turn what is into what could be.
“How can I make this work?” I think, and never
Consider that—if I’m doing the work
To make it work—then I’ll do it forever,
And never be its play date—just its clerk.
I want the magic so much I could die,
So I use sleight of hand to bring the heat
And fail—because no matter how you try,
You can’t sweep yourself up off your own feet.
It can’t be called—it has to be there, waiting.
Love’s what I should be feeling—not creating.
Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells