I do not know if this is love
or what love is
or if love's a thing, if it can be
worn like an old coat, or felt
like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or
if it is a sensation, like that first time
the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or
the climax of masturbation, or
if love is an invention, and we all
manufacture our own versions -
some bright, some dull, some marbled,
but all with labels and stickers
that say: this is love.
I do not know what love is
or if I can say what I think love is,
could be or should be. If we were
to ever sit on the marble floor,
on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree
Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's
and I were to tell you that this is love,
slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar.
and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving
for I don't know what love is or if it can be known.
Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching
for what love means, we will sit outside -
you and I -
amidst the debris of our meanderings,
our bent backs resting
on the rusted iron railing,
our skin pimpled, throats scratched
from prayers uttered to absent gods and
we would be in love and believe that love is this:
love is all the spaces, non-events,
the unspoken words and everything
in between the first second of these
thirty years to this. Love is this.