thoughts from outside Starbucks on a Wednesday afternoon

I like the idea of owning love.
Like, ‘that love’s hers.’
Like, ‘that love belongs to him, not me.
But I’m sure he would let you try some if you asked nicely,
and presented him a hand of crushed daisies.’
Like children with playground games.
I like the idea of everyone’s love being different.
Like, ‘yours is quieter than mine.’
Like, ‘mine is softer than his.’
Like, ‘where did you get yours?’
And to answer you would have to follow it
like a timeline, through everyone you’ve ever been allowed to love.
And anyone who you’ve let love you back.
I like the idea of love being something you could grow.
Like, a DIY project.
Like, a potted plant
that needs less water but more sunlight.
And you could grow your own,
from a collection of others.
Like, a compilation of lessons
of how others taught you to love.
And if love was bottled to be sold on a shelf,
we would all have our own flavour.
Yours sweet.
Mine bitter.
I like the idea of owning love.
Like, we could lend it,
or share it with whoever is sticky enough to keep it around.
Or reckless enough
to take it off the shelf,
And swallow a shot like a seventeen-year-old.