Foraging leftover sesame seeds
off my empty plate, one
among the girls talking shop and gossip
around the office kitchen table,
my take on romantic love
sticks out like unwieldy bangs or the slip
of a dress dancing below the hemline.
I believe in best friends, not soul mates,
and that love is acknowledging and accepting
facts, flaws, fetishes, death of infatuation,
and not the struggle to frame beloveds
as dark-and-handsome archetypes.
I believe in birthday reminders, personal space,
the diplomatic necessity of occasional white lies, being
straightforward and GGG, voiding external expectations,
and that pious fools who buy cows first
deserve their sour milk.