bread and butter

cheering with a stranger for nothing in particular,

and too disowned to know you're never alone.

but there it stands: a breathing end

counting seventy times back again.

i think i heard the birds calling

your name

in the quietest moment of the daytime

when i'd forgotten about you.

if i could write lovely things about you all day

i guess i'd spend my time wondering if you really existed

or if

i was in love with the honest things that weren't

about you; the things we hold onto anyway

because it reminds us that

love is more than just a verb

and maybe then that

it's there if we're patient and...

maybe still...