What if love was an angel that was sent from heaven as a bird and it touched your life. It flew down over to where you are and it perched on a branch. It shared its song with you, a melody pure and bright. You listened to it and your life became touched by an angel. Rays of light descended alongside the bird and dappled all that they touched. All types of shit became dappled and your life changed forever.
The bird, love, in fact an angel, was not special like a dove but not ugly like a pigeon. It must have been bigger than two caged lovebirds, but smaller than two swans gliding side-by-side across tranquil waters. You shot off that email and wore a tie. Surprised by sudden onset joy, you stopped seeing your therapist. You discussed the visit of love as an angel in the form of a bird with anyone willing to listen.
You arrived at philanthropic cocktails on a roof lounge in Manhattan. People in your life, all of those around you in fact, suddenly were moved to consider that yes, your life had been touched, and they knew beyond doubt that they stood in the presence of a visited man. But of course love does not visit from Heaven.
Love is a human error made wrong on Earth. Love impoverishes each day lived by throwing it into a pit of not having. I felt an inkling of this when we drank Miller High Life in glass bottles at the lunch place I used to like before it went out of business. It was the second time we met.
A waitress delivered the beers and did not notice the label on mine was applied upside down, but it verily spooked us, the erroneous sticker. Perhaps it was scary, amusing, but what do you do with that kind of thing but move on without caution.
