This thing called love won’t save you

and it will not translate the languages you
think you hear. Nor will it fit itself between
the lines and semantics of his words.

          Love is inept.

It is a child fumbling with glass,
letting fragile things, like you, slip
between its fingers to shatter time
and again.

          Love is mocking.

It is a liar which leads you to believe in all
things which could never be true like:

          joy comes in the morning.

and in the morning there is only sun
and dawn and the beginning of new time
and love never considers that you’ve yet
to wind down the past. Or that you are still
trying to figure out the span of time between then
and now.

          Love is not a timekeeper.

Instead, it keeps marching forward, crushing each moment
beneath its heel and when it reaches the end of its path,
it presses pause just long enough to catch its breath, then
begins again.

          Love is a journeyman.

Photo Credit:

Athena Dixon is Founder and Editor in Chief of Linden Avenue Literary Journal and a former fiction reader for Gigantic Sequins. Her creative non-fiction and poetry has appeared in For Harriet, Tawdry Bawdry, Emerge, Blackberry: A Magazine, and is forthcoming in Compose.

She writes, edits, and resides in NE Ohio.