Sort of Love

Most of us have that sort-of-love,

The disposable kind-of-thing.

Even those whose love lingers for years

Like an inoperable medical condition.

Too lazy to leave, or having settled in fear

Into someone like an old recliner.

But all that can be replaced 

If certain conditions are not met—

Regardless of vows, or a ring.

Vulnerable to even a misunderstanding. 

Or if—that's just how it goes

And mistakes are unfortunately made.

Or things change, people fall out of love.

Though, they don't. 

They fall out of infatuation—not love.

Or they have that which they can take or leave,

And move on, if need be,

Staying in people like a hotel.

Disparaging the one before.

It all can be divorced, or dissolved,

Replaced, or absolved.

Love has become a revolving door.

A Sears-Roebuck.

People have become products

Like a cellphone or a car.

Previously owned, low miles, slightly used. 

New upholstery, never abused. 

Like a starter house—a starter wife—

A take home order from a bar.

They sell themselves on websites and in ads,

Must love dogs, or beards.

Single moms seeking single dads.

Or they have that which they 

Sacrifice and pawn.

And as many people I see with "Loyalty" 

Tattooed somewhere

On their rented, communal bodies,

Even in Chinese,

I don't see much of it anymore. 

It is why I admire the old married couples

Who've spent their lives together. 

That is a wealth greater than any other,

One husband, one wife,

One father, one mother. 

To love someone so completely 

That there never could be a Plan B.

Never another option, a fall-back.  

Their life is your life 

And their death is your death.

When they die, they do not move on,

One half without the other.

Give me this or nothing at all. 

Let me not be the fool at the bar,

Recalling past wives and years spent

And all the places and people I've been to and in. 

Hoping to find it all over again.

Let me not make a fool of myself,

Dusting myself off from years on a shelf.

As I drink a lover for as many beers,

Looking around to see who is available

To rent for a couple of years.

If you will not weep at my grave,

Do not take up my time, it is not free.

Your love is for someone else.

Someone who will not weep for you.

Someone other than me. 

I want whole love. 

A love that consumes. 

A love that knows, not a love that assumes.

I want Romeo and Juliet,

Not Sodom and Gomorrah.

I want the Holy Bible 

Not the Quran or the Torah. 

I want a conflagration, not a flickering flame.

I want that which is wild and unbridled,

Not that which is tempered and tame. 

I want love that does not wait,

That which isn't labor, or riddled with doubt.

That which is greater than fate.

That which burns and does not blow out.

That with passion which never dulls, or ceases.

That which is whole and cannot be broke apart in pieces. 

That which only knows truth and does not lie.

That which is immortal and cannot die.  

That which is natural and doesn't pretend.

And that which death cannot touch nor end. 

For there is another place, after this life,

Where we are certain, we will meet again.

And there we still will be husband and wife.

We will not have a sort of love. 

That which slips on and off like a convenient glove. 

And it wouldn't be a sacrifice to weep for me at my grave,

As inconsolably as I would weep for you.

It would be a privilege to

For this life would be unimaginable and not ever worth living without you.

 

"Sort of Love." Poem by Adam Nobody. 2025. 

Christmas Eve at the Grave. Painting by by Otto Hesselbom. 1896.