Love is…

sitting in a dim room, on the sofa,
wearing your favorite tube top
and tight-fitting low-rise jeans,
channel surfing and making stupid jokes,
while twirling your hair,
glancing at the clock,
watching the seconds go by…
tick, tick, tick,

waiting for the phone to ring,
waiting to hear his voice.
You reach for the phone,
but hesitate.

Instead, you push the curtain aside,
and hope his silver car pulls in
to your driveway
for a surprise
visit.

An hour passes,
you sit on the sofa
and channel surf.

Love is…

putting balls
of cookie dough
on a baking sheet,
placing it on the oven rack
and watching it rise,

smelling the sweet aroma,
thinking of Pillsbury
dough boy’s
cute, little laugh
and how you would like
to make your boy
laugh

just like that, as you imagine
standing on the steps,
ringing his doorbell,
greeted by his smile
as he sweeps
you into a sweet embrace
and later cuddle
by the fireplace
eating chocolate chip cookies,

salivating with pleasure
and longing.
In reality, you sit
at the kitchen table
eating sugar cookies
alone.

Love is…

when you put all his stuff
in a cardboard box.
His Raiders jacket
that he let you wear
when it started to pour,
ticket stubs to “Just My Luck”
and other chick flicks
you dragged him to see.

Birthday cards and teddy bears,
hand-made gifts and poetry
sealed with a kiss,
memories of love,
memories to be forgotten,
placed at his doorstep
in the pouring rain.

Love is…

driving in your car
heading to God knows where,
listening to sappy love songs
from the static-filled radio
that is drowned out by the rain.

You watch the swish,
swish, swish
of your window wipers,
mesmerized.
It sweeps away the raindrops

as your hand sweeps
away your tears,
pitter-patter, pitter-patter,
like the drums

of your heart.
It gets foggy,
you can’t really see
what’s going on.
Slam on the brakes,
maybe it’ll clear up,
maybe not.

You smile, you laugh,
you don’t know why
as you drown
in tears.

Love is…
unrequited,
love is…
blind.

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