I used to have love.
You could see it in my eyes
and feel it in my hands …
or so I was told.

I spent it in nickels and dimes,
tips to disinterested bartenders.

I lost it in leaks,
holes punched in a tin bucket
by hidden nails.

I loaned it to fools and dreamers
in exchange for pocket lint collateral.

I invested it in poems
read to a deaf audience and
paintings displayed before the blind.

I miss it now,
in the presence of children
or the violet twilight
just before the stars appear,
but only sometimes.