Love hesitates based on what it knows.
What came before pulses through its veins;
through the barren, rugged terrain.
The shells of those left behind -
made brittle by the sun.
Love hesitates and waits on the memory of a dream;
of a desire for something it knew for so long but lost,
and forced an end.
It hesitates at the memory of the loss and the open veins and
Love hesitates and hangs in the air with the moisture
above a kiss in the rain.
It walks among the frozen moments like a ghost
lost in time.
Love hesitates because it knows no other way than
but to wait.
It hesitates and dreams and longs and hopes and dies.
Love knows that only in death can it find life again;
yet it hesitates -