Ephmeralove

Last night I found love
memorizing cell structure
in the fourth floor of the library.
She pointed out the blazing skyline
from the window,
I pulled out the books in my bags,
most of them biographies of her

Love's hair is just past shoulder length,
her cheeks flushed and freckled.
We laughed over the madness of poets and scientists
who scream secrets (their discoveries)
to the world.

She refused to move from her seat
so I moved on, the smell of lilac in my mind.
She’s still there now, smiling at strangers
and scribbling notes in the sidelines of her books

waiting for one ignorant of her name,
who isn’t looking to excavate themselves
for her. The last thing love wants is more
of what she’s got.