this poem smells like nag champa

our love is like
A Bird without grace-
flying blinded into
telephone poles &
windshields- but

the best love is messy
the best love is sweat
and knotted hair
the best love is sore and exhausting, a
finely tuned machine of chaos;

as a balance of space
or an equation of time;
versus sleeping alone on
purpose to delay the
blurring of lines;