can't kiss, but can still
quietly walk
around the perimeter
of this indescribable
feeling and listen—
when it seems certain
that no room is left
in the inn
for the bigness of the
thought we've been
trying to hold in,
but still, there
are a few
rickety windows
we can reach and fling
open to let in
some air—
when we can’t find words
for the despair
which devours us,
and yet, it doesn't feel
all that capricious
to sing
with some friends in
a bar about
frivolous things—
that's when
we're finally ready
to admit
that there's no
rationale, but
it must
stand to reason:
we can probably live
without the touch
of true meaning,
as long as there‘s
the feeling.
