As entwined
as your souls may seem,
the hard fact,
love is a dream,
a fragile construct, which,
without design plans or material list,
without even a crude tool kit,
in frantic bliss, on faith built,
in thinest air does exist.

All it takes
is for the other
to call it over
and it is.

So again,
no longer lovers,
but friends.

If she turns, mid-kiss,
her head askance,
though it makes no sense,
if words received in warmth
on Monday, on Wednesday seem
untoward advance,
it’s no time to offer up defense
but to accept it
as a man, and
walk in tenderness.