Rose or Thorn?

A 2017 poem I revised. The prompt had something to do with a love poem. Revisions done: New title, multiple new lines, and word choice for clarity and context.

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

What is actual true love? 
Is it the love of money? The love of power
over another's emotions? 
The panacea to the absolute dread 
you feel whenever you’re alone? 
The feeling of death's whispers
on your temple without your lover? 
The glee when a friend brings you a birthday gift,
when you thought they forgot,
and without a word, got it perfectly? 
The bliss crucifixed in memory when two
become one under the fire 
of many moons phases? 
The relief when a spouse isn’t having an affair, 
isn’t serving you divorce papers or court schedules, 
but overt earnest love letters 
you'd throw yourself from a roof
if anyone else saw them out of context? 
Can someone direct me to a definition?  
My so-called lover’s voice being all that I hear, 
over catchy radio songs 
that get stuck in your head
until you want to scream
and tear the lyrics from your skull? 
Their quirks all that I see 
in shower puddles,
over the woman that nursed me 
for nine months without a lover, 
despite all of her sisters 
wearing floor scrapping white gowns 
with diamondless gold rings to match—
that fooled no one—
before the talk 
of a father's responsibility? 
Is that love
in the purest form 
of the unexpected
disappearance—a silent
goodbye, the last one
—without a kiss?
Can anyone answer 
what God won’t
and what time
dangles 
but denies?

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