If love were of the mind reason would have killed it. But love lands like a beetle that lays its eggs in skin, smelts muscle, bores bone. Only thing noble in love is how it emulates sparrows flying off the spine. Cupid breathed on me and I was liquid glass, pulled-blue blown see-through. I gave A. everything: my golden city woven into purple cloaks, the chicest hunting parties, a tireless ear. But he was never taught to live on earth, just eat and sleep and shit here; never taught you can’t just take, take. The balls he had to speak to me in hell, to ease his guilt, ashes clinging even to my shadow: the soot love leaves after it enters like air, feels just like fire, then is.