why

I am forced to conclude
that love makes absolutely no sense
and does not wish the best for its owner

It survives in spite of the best intentions
and grows like a weed with the slightest hint of rain

the only defense I have for its cruel machinations
is that I have known it to be returned
once or twice

—and while it is as subtle as the piercing
of one thousand red hot knives—
when it is returned,
it is the stuff of creation
it is the breath behind air
it is the reason for mountains
it is the beating of each heart
and the answer to the only question