Love is memory
Love is a series of past acts
You saw go by in
A parade or a pageant
Or a passion play
Love wasn’t carrying
The cross for her
It was the dream of carrying
In a past whose truth
Was evaporated
Upon waking
Hugs never last for more than
A few seconds
But the memory of the hug
Or the kiss done in passion
Or anger
Lasts a year
A century
They wove it into a tapestry
At the cloisters
That thing you wove
Was love
Because love is memory
Beauty is Imperfection 