In which what has filled to the brim has spilled over:


Our love is the top of a balloon rising.   Our love is Anna Purna.   Our love is the end of long day beer with feet on the table.   Our love is the Godfather trilogy with someone who makes you terribly angry.   Our love is the victory over fruit flies, ants, and silverfish.  It is finishing a novel, a commission, a thesis.   Our love is a starfish waving underwater, a slop sink coming unclogged, a perfect amount of ice cream.   Our love is minky weather, rattan furniture that is actually comfortable, astral projection, coup contra coup.   Our love is bendy straws, the end of a headache, rollos, and magic tricks that aren’t stupid.   Our love is a wide brimmed hat on a sunny day, fantasy novels you can’t guess the ending of, the last piece of cake in the middle of the night, the best old-fashioned Italian place nobody young goes to.   Our love is an image that genuinely befuddles, a fog machine, Saturday afternoon.   Our love is cold fizzy water, a blue scarf the color of the Mediterranean, fibs that protect feelings, snow days, the last note of Monster Mash, mechanical Turks of any kind, a trip to the seashore, a frying egg, and wooden chairs that don’t squeak.   Our love is a clean desk, the smell of hazelnut syrup, cotton sheets, and the funniest cat video.   Our love is stinky cheese, homemade hootenannies where someone plays piano, wood grain, and flip flops.   Our love is a new rug, a play that thrilled, the fast lane, the check engine light going off spontaneously, several checks in the mail on the same day, the weekend before a big ass long break, a new favorite record, windows facing a garden, Destry Rides Again, and suddenly “getting” quantum physics.   Our love is pancakes.  It is eyelashes on the page.  It is ceiling fans, and writing dates and mortgages being paid, and pratfalls and tushies.   Our love is the first pill or drink, the diet kicking in, good sleep in hot weather, and midwifery.   Our love is Mondo’s circle dress, introducing someone to Dr. Strangelove, the best strawberries of the last 10 years, trombone solos, ivies on the trellis, the package arriving, the cat from next door carrying her kittens in her mouth, down the sidewalk, one at a time, drum kits, giggling babies from Sweden, Klimt, pregnancy stories, corn silk, the quiet after demolition, erotic porn, and walnut boats, carbonation pops, rooster photos, cast parties, gold swings, biographies, highlighter pen smell, long hot dog sticks, piles of old magazines, dreams of thrift stores open only to you, fresh air when you’re nauseated, kids on bikes, man pants, scratching an itchy butt hole, and the end of suffering. Our love, our love, our love, (fading….)