Strange Love

Something takes its place, or fills its space, when a thing leaves.

Like leaves;

They disconnect, and new ones take up that air when the sun showers.

Or like blood, which you lose, and – no pressure – more blood flows.

It’s automatic, some times, repetitious; like a sunset, a broken heart,

a land at war;

The morning rises, the heart flutters and warms, the peace echoes.

But it is, perhaps once in your life, draining, not probable,

illogical.

Like an organ, the God-made kind, when it quits early.

The sun won’t grow one, nor the rain; the tide won’t bring one.

And then, one time, a stranger’s love is the thing.

To find a need, to fight and strain.

To fill a space.