The strongest is the quietest love,
which never whispers stealthily in your ear,
which doesn’t serenade you at late hours,
which doesn’t dare to pronounce
the verb in process, the unfinished action.
The one that takes credit for nothing,
but in the death hour
will be happy in the thought
that it could pour itself out on you
and will not die full
of unfulfilled potential.
Love is imperfective,
because when it’s perfected
it’s done,
and it’s quiet,
because while being spoken
it ceases to be.
Love is its own reason,
it doesn’t need arguments
to exist.
It’s an urge that would kill
if it’s not quenched.
Love isn’t carefree butterflies
but a loaded gun in our pocket,
it isn’t fair but brutal,
it’s not optional but it bursts out
as we cling to our loved ones
for fear of stopping being able to love
when they’re gone.
Love is quiet but only
if we let it speak.
