Self-Taut Poem by Troy Cochran

Love is big.
It will get bigger.

To disallow a thing desired
raises it an octave higher.

While we mourn the lack of sound
from other lips that are not here to matter,

Consider:

The slackness in the string
that reaches out to someone other

Makes no music till it's taut
to sing above the note it's got.

The lonely lover harping on its one heart only
hears already what the world cannot:

Sublime, melodious, beautiful noise
imagined, till the instrument of its love attains

Attunement to it valentine.

Thus our music climbs to heights
above the musings of our solemn nights.

And dreams that stretch out long as kites,
strong and tight, and nearly blowing out of sight,

Achieve their ends; make no amends.
Our line of thought demands two ends!

The tension in the line
is teaching us to be divine:

Love, delayed, but grows our appetite.