Vanishing

Love was certain once.

Like the sea against the cliffs,

like the moon

cupped in the dark hands of the sky.

I called it by name, and it answered.

It came to me barefoot,

smelling of salt and jasmine.

Where does love go

when it leaves the body?

Does it scatter like birds,

startled from a branch?

Does it burrow

into the quiet of lost things?

Or dissolve, slow and unseen,

like salt vanishing into the sea?

When did love become a question

instead of an answer?

Love sees as a child sees.

Without angles, without maps,

only the sun breaking on water,

the certainty of a hand reaching back.

Without fear, without time.