It is a privilege to use 'love' so often in poetry

It is easy to see how one could become wrapped up in being delighted.

Oh I love this, possibility of leisure in the beautiful things.

That certain distance about the ones I love remembering ones they loved.
Loving (words: love; loved). Such prevalence and privilege;

The possibility of taking it, cocooning a lifespan in it.

Ah, and you, Kindness. You delight me. And I desperately want you to surround me.
Because when you are evident, there is a lightness to me, and there is a Me that could live surrounded with your consequences.

And this me is an artist. She is an author. She is married to a good man, with kind children.

These children: They love to learn. They share their lunches with the sad ones. They play music that makes everyone listen.

This me, she grows old, and does not notice, because time is on her side. She paints until the day she dies painlessly, delighted, few lines on her face, gripping the hand of someone who loves her, proceeded by many she loves.

But this me-- she chooses not to invite the stranger into her home.

She never
spun that stranger around.

She never
swept away his mask and begged him to let her take some of the darkness away.

The one walking away from her.
The tired one, matted in blood, hungry.
The one with the torn boots and a damaged heart.

"Do not forget me," he cries desperately.
"You promised.'