My knowledge of love;
That shapeless,
Pink bubbly thing;
Is but more than a few memories,
Scattered like dust on the old shelf in my head.
Some frames have it thick,
Aging well and growing sweeter;
While others spread thin,
As I have been picking them up,
And looking at them recently.
These oldest,
Untouched frames show pictures of a young me;
Who learned love from caressing mother,
And playful father.
Those more agitated are the new facts;
Which I had intended to burn,
But crammed them up there anyways,
Just to take up space,
And remind me of pain.
My tortured grin,
Awkward stance,
Saddened glance,
All depict a me;
A me unknown to caressing mother,
And playful father.
Who probably know the struggles I've seen,
But know that they can fix it,
With knowledge and laughter.