Love is the frame,
the paper.
Love is the string.
Love is hours spent
assembling the kite.
Love is the empty blue sky
waiting for you to dance across it.
Love is the wind.
Love is the tree.
Love is the leaves
tumbling through the gale.
Love is testing the breeze,
waiting for the perfect moment.
Love is impatient,
launching too soon
into certain disaster.
Love is still standing, waiting,
long after the breeze has passed.
Love is the tension
which holds the kite aloft.
Love is the desperate dance
as the kite starts to fall.
Love is the crash.
Love is the splintered balsa,
the torn paper.
Love is putting the kite
back together again.
Love is trying again.