The shape of love is a funny thing.
Sometimes it’s car doors and raised voices or explosive seconds dragging into minutes.
It can be square like steps paced around the room or the set of your shoulders backlit by old headlights.
Sometimes it’s a circle, the ember at the end of your cigarette glowing a steady red.
It can scatter, dandelion seeds escaping on the wind.
Sometimes it’s no shape at all, a blur existing only in our inner eye, a memory we try to understand.
Sometimes it’s long with strides at a gallop as it slides away.
It can fade, short days into the longest nights and remerge, clouds parting for light.
Sometimes it’s grainy, dirt under your nails and a mouth full of mud, or sinister like a pistol at your back.
It can be oblong, a pill too big to swallow, or slow flowing murky water.
I’m not sure the shape of this love but it hurts nonetheless.