The Plain Kind


There is something physically painful
in a stopped clock.
Unable to do what it was built for
it begs you to look away.

You’re a bitch if you look away.

Broken things can’t be mended
by politeness.
They need a stubborn commitment.
A heart that furiously refuses
to ever, ever, ever,
look elsewhere.

That is a kind of love.
Not the pretty kind.
The kind that knows
it has a helpless task
but does it anyway.

The kind that knows
gratitude isn’t love
and prepares itself to leave,
once the broken has mended.

That is a kind of love.
Not the simple kind.
The kind that knows
that love isn’t
about reciprocation.
The kind of heart
that goes uphill
in a rainstorm.

That is a kind of love.
Not the fanciful kind.
The kind that dresses
in simple clothing
and unpretentious detail.
The plain kind.

The kind that defines me.

 

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