Slobbered, recycled love

Nine crows were searching for love, amidst the dumpster next to the lake. Their beaks in and out of crushed tin cans and rotten vegetable peelings, searching for confirmation of mistaken kindness, messy feet, stench-covered claws, exchanging kisses, drops of food, slobbered love. I wondered watching the flying- landing black winged commoners, what proves love, which action, which antics…
Is it when you wake up much earlier than usual, first morning lights invade the bottom of your feet, your eyes fill with tears for someone who had last touched you on this very day eons ago and then his soul blended in with the high-flying clouds, leaving you with a half-painted picture and the unbearable weight of unresolved emotions?
Or is it when someone gives you a present, on the most unexpected of days, and it's a book full of words which are supposed to soothe you, with a signature from the writer himself, and a few words in his perfect handwriting, calling you by your nickname. Is love there? Enough love to be held in between 300 to 400 pages?
Or is it love when you forget yourself and you find your mind and body drenched in someone else's madness, their chaos painting with black ink all over the palm you had extended for comfort, because it felt natural to do so and good. Is it love when you are invisibly tattooed with not just your own experiences but the experiences of others which moved you?
Or is it love when distance creates more affection, more attachment, much more than reality? You always knew self-love is above all, affirmations from everyone are not equal and love itself is a strange word. You define love with longing, you misunderstand love with infatuation, with the sparks in someone's eyes, undivided attention, momentary satisfaction, pushing limits, how far, how deep, how close? Then step away, back to bed with one heart, two eyes, no tears, no smiles, as if love never left your body, and neither did it enter.
And our lonely bodies, left alone years ago, from the tight hold of the womb, to the baby-oiled massages under the sun, then slowly limiting to hugs and kisses, and then further distance till touch becomes a foreign thing, often forbidden, always protected, eventually forgetting the feeling of it all together, in companionship or not… so if suddenly your body wakes up with affection, touch, tight holds, would the mind you developed while in the womb mistake it for love?
Would anyone hold me to my theories, argue till I cried? Pushed me till I fell? Anger me till I became violent? All in the game of proving love while love gets buried inside the stomach of some crow, in the dark, pungent smell, to be run over tomorrow morning by a truck driver, splattered in a concrete road for some other crow to pick on, recycling love.