“How much do I love her?” she asks.

I know not what to say,
for my love is not a one
nor a zero it is.

It is analog,
not a line,
let alone

Each person, each thing,
gets not affection on a scale.

I can’t plot it on a graph,
to fathom it, to understand.

It feels like it starts
from a sphere of some sort,
a small one, and
as mushy as my heart.

Threads of love squiggle out,
for people and for things.

Like strands of hair long,
some dark, some not,
they wiggle and jiggle
sideways and sometimes out.

It ain’t even one thread
for one person or that thing,
one could have many
or just a half frizzy string.

It shortens, it thickens,
it splits, it lengthens,
it thins, it merges
and does a rigmarole.
It creates new moves,
a dance of its own

At times,
it defies time too.
It lengthens the past
and makes the present

How much do I love her then?
And is it good enough?
That one thread
has her name on it?

Maybe there are
Or sixty two strings
she could own in me.
Or yesterday
she was a
thick and long