Failing Lexicon

From the museum of sacred, terrifying things.
When we said love we meant something else.
Something shaped like a mythical creature
whose lungs were no match for air. Something
with a tail that dragged forever like a tire kicking
up dirt all the way home. I know this now
because it appeared so easily, slipped in
as we fingered the lock’s numbers, the combination
coming up again and again. Love is a thing with teeth
and no memory. It is its own sacred rite clawing.
It will not be forgotten just as I cannot forget this.
Lines draw across the surface, someone else reading aloud.