You make loving seem evidential,
as all props and body language
are embellished
with purposeful intentions
and fronting loving me
as a replacement for
an absence of self-love
whenever an exhibition is in need.
It is as if love or loving
is a foreground series of gestures
on a continuum of display.
It exists as a syntax
with repeatable insistence,
and a persuasion
from an interior state
in need of recovery
and its success
is dependent on strategy,
effortful deeds,
intentional accounts,
a feigned spontaneous
but natural appearance,
a breakthrough from habits,
solicited compromise in return,
mutual agreement in practice,
and appropriated response.
None of the above mentioned
seeks fulfillment or feels complete.
All are enduring as loose terms
for the idle worship of a cause
and then technical terms
for the projection
and application of control.
What love that you give
by any of these previous means
is, by then,
soon after, solemn in history!
Timelessness intercedes
but does not block or replace
any of this contrivance.
What is this love
that pretends towards cheerfulness?
What needs to blossom
is of a greater source and depth.
All of this is expanding
within the emptiness of certainty.
There is no need
for scrutiny or revision.
There are no margins for error,
no calculable means.
Love is not a series of reminders.
There are no episodes
of greater or lesser worth.
What passes as fluid is revelation.
What lives buoyantly
is in true high-spirited celebration.
Radiance effortlessly put forth
is self-love richly shared.
This permeates all things unfolding.
All cells will dance to it on their own.
But love is never the evidence . . .
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