True love

Like a tilted camera, waits
waiting for Bresson's decisive moment
to slant into your view

to click, to capture to enrapture you with it's passion
descending over and under
slanting, winding, and blowing down the doors of
your heart until reaching,
and yearning past the gates of your keepsake locket
filled with the faces of those you've touched

True love

is a man in a black sedan who swirled around you,
curling you into the shotgun seat,
and shared the patches of his broken quilt
while speeding over bridges and under glowing streetlamps,
Hurling you forward into the stars that somehow, for a moment,
you catched in your glittering eyes.

How could it be,
all this, on a spring night, on a designer couch,
behind a salt lamp and above the velvet covers
True love, waited
in a moment that existed purely for the purpose
of passing, of living and then dieing

And the shutter of your heart opened and closed
decisively, but not permanently
setting you free to love on this one windy night,
then reeling you back, and painting another face,
another photograph to the patches of your quilt and his.