Where Love Goes
What happens to the love we can’t give: where does it go?
Does it flow, from my feet to the grass beneath?
Does it rise, from my breath like a haze of heat?
Does it collect somewhere, in a winter store –
will there be a lake of love left after the thaw?
Or does it fade, to the pale cracked pink – almost white –
of forgotten old toys in the bleaching sunlight?
Is it lost – do you think – like red wine down the sink,
after parties, from glasses that no-one could drink?
Are there places it’s seeped into plaster and lath
like the walls of a room where the widower sat?
Perhaps there are people who sense these things
in the weight of their grandmother’s wedding ring.
It goes – I can’t say where.
Once it’s left, it’s not mine,
but it’s somehow still there.