A Little Love Affair

Liberating, isn’t it,
The loss of everything,
Or
The vertigo of standing
At the brink.
The original gamblers’ urge
We played this simple game
Way back before we learned
To make it complicated.
Like Go, we mark territory,
We Try not to get trapped,
We Weigh prisoners against
The prisoners of our other halves.
And when we lose, blood boils
For a minute,
And then re-rack the stones,
A rematch, another go at it.
In the end, we learn
The perfect temperature
For tea,
Is two degrees below boiling.
A degree higher, you burn the leaves.
A degree lower, and all you make
Is hot water.