love is.

two chairs outside the sliding doors,
blackened by the embers of who we used to be,
by the smoke of a future i was afraid to inhale.
two chairs holding the weight of skin that shed in painful increments:
this is love to me.
today i moved out of the home with the two chairs.
i made a metaphorical adolescent, browsing through goodwill, happy
when i said goodbye to my plus one cds and my edward and bella 24x36 poster.
i made a girlfriend metaphorically question my good will
when i kept my michael w. smith cd.
i trashed The Paper Towels splattered with injustice against myself
because the only stain i want to see on these wrists is recovery.
and when my father carried the two black chairs away,
i remembered the sacredness of the conversations between you and me,
the way Rolheiser's Forgotten Among the Lilies opened me more than I opened it.
the way touch was not only physical but spiritual and intellectual.
the way we sometimes relied on the magnificent oration of silence,
simply grateful that we had each other.
the two chairs still mean love to me.
imperfect conversations, imperfect resolutions, imperfect shedding,
but when i sat next to you,
i rested in the provocative perfection of grace and honesty.
that is why i can walk away without seeing regret drip from the icicles around 5070:
because this isn't really home anymore.
home is you.