I love you, and I don't.

I love you, and I don’t

because love is like running

the fat of your finger

against the rough

of the can–

jagged metal

against my vulnerable

skin–

a blood crop bursting

forth through rows

of torn flesh,

and a bandage

nowhere to be found.

But how is love not the option,

even as I wait and watch

in horror–

the severe ten-car pile-

up

of your tender life–

and me merely

a human,

a common place ant,

in a procession far beyond me?

But maybe just by being here

I can give you the softest hint

of who He is and what He’s done

when the whole world crescendoed

into each other–

metal against metal,

face against fist–

and He fought a fight

we could only lose

with His own rows

of torn flesh

and a love that heals

all wounds.