Grilled Cheese and Love

I used to think
that love was a kind of layered,
unfolding,
blooming
function of life,
something that you would treat with care;
like when you pull
a freshly made grilled cheese apart,
carefully but intensely;
I thought, you could draw out the process as long as you were able;
or rather, you would draw out the process as long as you were able,
you would lift the two toasted, buttery triangles as high as you could,
watching the magma cheese keep a grounding tether to the plate,
to home,
to something that is known and safe,
a familiar anchor,
while at the same time flying higher than any
other sandwich had been known to,

I used to think that,
think that,
think that you could amaze your friends with the volume of your love,
The elasticity of your love,
the plasticity of your love,
but I don’t think that now;
no,
now I sit silently in a loud bar,
surrounded by the good types of thinkers,
and I see love calculated to a pattern of behavior,
reduced to the pulp and rind of my old fashioned,
As I suck it down the straw,
pulling with it all memory of any past grilled cheese.

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