my love stomach has been stretched with much of it
and now I long for the richest kinds, deepest flavors;
pangs throb through my body, I am not content
but to love one and love all of that one deeply.
I cringe at men whose faraway bowls and plates heap high
with shallow, weak, bland love but colorful.
these indulge only to be full of emptiness,
realizing late it wasn't love at all, but just carried its name.
to delight in delighting another,
to dig a soul up and love it completely, every crack and dent,
to love and be loved equally, immeasurably, passionately:
that is the smile of my heart.
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