Knot Really

The effort of Love is,
often like, building a puzzle.
All white.
Spilled milk,
on a red floor.
The pieces fit, when you
try. When you navigate the
corners, that stare inward, like ancient
historians that know
the answer. Know
the futility in
perfection, and see the beauty
in the missing parts.
The parts where you can
make up the story. You can
bleed your own answers.
Misshapen,
flawed,
but still,
so beautiful.