What could be more precious than…

by Matters of Inquiry

What, then, of love?

 

              a bird lost in

its own songs—

a shell taken from the ocean,

             remembering

 

the sound

of its own emptiness.

 

A love removed

   remembers itself,

but I am without shore,

       departure, or song.

 

I’m without the memory

 

of who I am or where

           I came from. I have only

 

the inside of a pearl, a grain of sand

      praying to Coincidence,

an impulse gathered by Doubt and

Chance from somewhere

 

we can never return,

and never left.

 

What then, of love?

 

What could be more

precious than

 

who you really are?

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