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The Trouble with Three

The word love, 
spoken at the wrong time,
is like old candy,
melted and stuck to its wrapper,
cloying and papery,
chewy where it should be crisp.

At least that's how much
of my experience with the word
love has been-
like forgetting a crayon
left on a vinyl seat of a car,
it's inevitable.
Both the crayon and the seat
leave their mark on each other.

But to omit the word love
would be like boarding up
the windows of a house
because the world is too polluted,
too violent,
and the weather is always partially cloudy.

I don't love any less
because those fluffy clouds
are really chunks of ice;
neither is it fair to expect
to make sherbet out of them.

But I always keep a spoon in my pocket;
even though I can already taste
my own disappointment
sticking in my throat,
waxy and sweet.
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