what is not love?

there is a fruit
couched in a basket
on the side table
beside me

I see it when I want to,
it's there even if I don't,
waiting for everything
and nothing

a glowing skin
inviting hungry eyes
to feast from afar
or close, or never

layers to be peeled,
and given back
to the earth,
where they belong

skins that hold more
than what I can
see, touch, smell
or imagine

with the smallness,
largeness
and presence
of my being

only the infinite
can shrink or expand,
to fill
any space

like what it takes
to be the fruit
on this table,
with, or without my eyes

what is not love then?