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Eight
Love, you may rely on it.
Adhere to all its vibrancy,
denounce it in its infancy;
besmirch it as a crime.
Love, never more than finite;
by death or diplomacy
between two shattered,
and tired, tattered souls.
Romantics for the water-logged,
and cynics to keep dry.
Furnaces to stoke and feed,
a cradling with wants and needs,
a product of your union;
a sanctuary found.
Shelter shared in rainstorms
that lead to dampened lips
meeting out of urgency,
it seeks to overflow.
With disposal, suddenly
there is less to be stated,
less that is of note;
less to interrupt.
