I was looking for love in the grammar of a Spanish night class,
in the sweaty lycra of afternoon pilates,
in the baking of the window cleaner's cake.
I was looking for love in the lustful gaze of a married man,
in the box of things of an old boyfriend,
in the knowing melancholy of a sad song.
And then I found love.
But I ache when he is gone.
It is more painful than looking.
© Kevin Owen