A kind of love that’s not the one they agree on.
An erasing of thought.
That kind of love.
An erasing of experience.
A purging of agreement.
Not the one they all think Rumi describes.
But the actual one Rumi describes.
A love of all this washed away.
No contortions for passion, connections and copulation.
No worship of man’s ideas pasted onto nature.
Just raw, brutal nature.
Love of reduction.
Love of disagreement.
Love of surrender.
Love of death.
Love of endings containing beginnings.
